by C. J. Sansom
‘What if the girl talked?’
‘I planned to say she was confused, that I had tried to stop West and fled for help when I realized I couldn’t.’ He considered. ‘And I was willing to take the risk, to gain the Queen as a patron.’
I frowned. ‘But your promotion came through Thomas Cromwell, Catherine of Aragon’s enemy.’
‘Oh, Cromwell saw I could be a useful man.’
‘Please continue, Sir Richard.’ He gave me a long cold stare, and I suppressed a shudder at the thought of what he would have liked to do to me had I not had the Queen’s protection.
‘After I left West I planned to go to the nearest town and hire a horse. But I got lost in those woods and it soon became too dark even to see my way. Then I heard West blundering about in the trees, cursing and shouting my name. He had missed the letter. And he knew those woods, he had been brought up there. I managed to lose him, then I saw a light ahead, and made for it. I thought it was some house or inn where I could seek shelter.’ A cloud crossed Rich’s face, and I realized he had been afraid that night, alone in the woods.
‘The foundry,’ I said.
‘Yes, it was the Fettiplace foundry. There was some old man sitting on a straw bed there, drinking. I said I was lost and he told me the way to Rolfswood. He invited me to stay, I think he was awestruck having a gentleman appear out of the blue. I decided to wait, hoping West would give up or fall down drunk, which I learned later is what he did. While I sat I read the letter. The damned seal had broken when I took it off West. I was astounded, for in it the King said he intended to marry Anne; he thought he could get the Pope on his side if Catherine refused. I hadn’t realized that, I thought it was just some silly endearments to his mistress.’
‘So you took the letter to Catherine of Aragon and gave her warning of the King’s intentions.’
‘Yes. God’s death, the King must have been angry when West said he had lost it. I wonder West kept his head. Next year when the King went to Catherine saying he believed their marriage contravened biblical law and that was why they had had no sons, she already knew what his plans were. She’d had months to stew in her anger.’
‘If the King found out what you had done – ’
‘Catherine of Aragon never told him she had intercepted that letter. She always protected her servants, that was her strategy to keep people loyal. I began my way up the ladder that night – and changed my loyalties when in the struggle that followed I saw Anne Boleyn would be the victor.’
‘So what you helped West to do to Ellen, that set you on your upward path.’
‘If you like. But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. That night, as I was sitting in that old foundry, the door banged open. I feared West had found me but it was the girl who appeared, dishevelled and wild-looking. When she saw me she screamed and pointed and shouted, “Rape!” That man Gratwyck forgot his drink, got up and came towards me with a stick in his hand. Fortunately I had kept my sword. I slashed at him with it. I didn’t kill him, but he fell into the fire he had lit and a moment later he was on fire himself, stumbling and shrieking around the place.’ Rich paused and looked at me. ‘It was self-defence, you see, not murder. I confess it shocked me, and when I turned back to the girl she was gone.
‘I ran out into the night after her, but she had disappeared. I had to think what to do. I went back to the foundry, but it was already well on fire, Gratwyck still shrieking somewhere inside. So I walked up the path by that pond, looking for the girl.’
‘What would you have done, had you found her?’
He shrugged. ‘I did not find her. Instead I stepped straight into an older man in a robe.’
‘Master Fettiplace.’
‘He yelled, “Who are you?” I think he had been out looking for his daughter and come to the foundry to see whether she might be there, though I do not know. He grabbed at me, so I put my sword through him.’ Rich spoke quite unemotionally, as though reading a document in court. ‘I knew I had to get rid of him before people were attracted by the fire. I couldn’t put him in the building, it was ablaze from end to end by now. But it was a moonlit night, I saw a boat by the pond, I rowed him out and sunk him with a discarded lump of iron I found nearby. I walked until dawn broke, then I hired a horse from an inn and rode back to Petworth.’
You were afraid, I thought: walking through the night in a terrified panic after what you’d done.
Rich said, ‘Next day West sought me out. I denied I had anything to do with the fire, I said I rode straight back to Petworth, and though he suspected me there was no proof. As for the letter and the rape, I told him we must both keep quiet. But the fool rode back to Rolfswood again, to try and speak to Ellen. That was dangerous, it gave me some sleepless nights. But fortunately the girl had lost her wits, and after a while West and his family arranged with Priddis for her to be taken to the Bedlam. Priddis, as you can imagine, was well paid to ask no questions.’
‘So now you have made a new bargain with Philip West.’
‘Yes. I am good at bargains.’
‘He had insisted Ellen be left alive.’
Rich frowned. ‘He said if she ever came to harm he would tell the whole story. He was full of remorse then, he had decided to go to the King’s ships. He is half mad – I think part of him wants to die. Though with his honour preserved.’ Rich sneered. ‘That is why, when I met him today, he agreed to take the Curteys girl on board his ship, so I could bargain for your silence.’
‘My silence over what happened at Rolfswood, in return for getting Emma Curteys off that ship. I see. And what of Ellen?’
He spread his little hands. ‘I will leave her safe in the Bedlam, under your eye. I understand she would never leave, even if she could.’
I thought hard. But Rich was right. I could perhaps destroy him, but then I would never get Emma Curteys off the Mary Rose. I thought, you will get away with murder. But he had already; I remembered his betrayal of Thomas More, his persecution of heretics in Essex. I asked, ‘How can you be sure I will not take Emma off the ship, see her safe, and expose you anyway?’
‘Oh, I have thought of that.’
‘I guessed you would.’ I added, ‘You killed Mylling, too, didn’t you?’
‘He was in my pay, with standing instructions to inform me if anyone asked after Ellen Fettiplace. He told me you had been nosing around. And then, do you know, he tried to blackmail me, asked for more money. He did not know his young clerk was in my pay too. I could not afford any risks, so I arranged for the clerk to deal with him. Shutting him up in that Stinkroom place was a good idea; if he had survived it could be said the door shutting on him was an accident. Young Master Alabaster has his job now.’ He bent his head to search among his papers. ‘And now,’ he concluded briskly, ‘here it is.’ He pulled out a paper and passed it across to me. ‘Your will.’
I jerked backwards, nearly falling off my stool, for wills are made in contemplation of death. Rich gave a mocking laugh. ‘Do not worry. Everyone is making wills in this camp with the battle coming. Look through it, there are spaces for your legacies.’
I looked down. I make this will at Portsmouth, the French fleet before me, in contemplation of death. Then the executor’s clause: I appoint Sir Richard Rich, of Essex, Privy Councillor to his majesty the King, as my sole executor. Afterwards, the first legacy was already inserted: To the aforesaid Sir Richard Rich, with a request for forgiveness for dishonourable accusations I have laid against him over many years, but who has now shown me his true friendship, 50 marks. There was space for more gifts, then the date, 18th of July 1545, and space for me and two witnesses to sign.
Rich passed over two blank sheets of paper. ‘Copy it out twice,’ he instructed briskly, in charge again. ‘One copy for me to keep, for I have little doubt you will make a new will when you return to London. That matters not, the fifty marks is a nominal amount, as anyone can see. I want this will, which will be witnessed by a couple of reputable men from this camp who do not know me
or you, and who can testify later that your will was made quite freely, for I shall show it in court should you ever make accusations against me.’ He tilted his neat little head. ‘No legacies to Ellen Fettiplace, by the way.’
I read the draft will again. Neat, tidy, like everything Rich did, except for that first venture at Rolfswood when he had taken huge risks and murdered a man in a panic. He held out a quill and spoke quietly. ‘If you betray me, if you leave me with nothing to lose, then believe me something will happen to Ellen Fettiplace. So there you are, we have each other tied up neatly.’
I took the quill and began to write. As I did so I heard voices outside, clatter, noise: the King’s party, returning from South Sea Castle. I heard people talking in low, serious tones as they passed Rich’s tent.
When I had finished, Rich took the will and read both copies carefully. He nodded. ‘Yes, large gifts to Jack and Tamasin Barak and to Guy Malton, as I expected. Small gifts to the boys who work in your household.’ Then he looked up with an amused expression. ‘Who is this Josephine Coldiron you leave a hundred marks to? Are you keeping some whore with you at Chancery Lane?’
‘She, too, works in my household.’
Rich shrugged, studied the documents once more for some slip or trick, then nodded, satisfied, and rang the little bell on his desk. A moment later Peel came in. ‘Fetch a couple of gentlemen here,’ Rich said. ‘The higher their status the better. Officials, not anyone who may be involved in any fighting tomorrow. I want them to survive to remember witnessing my friend Shardlake here signing his will.’ He looked at the hourglass. ‘Be quick, time runs on.’
When Peel had gone, Rich said, ‘When the witnesses come we must pretend to be friends, you understand. Just for a moment.’
‘I understand,’ I said heavily.
Rich looked at me, curious now. ‘You were once a friend of Lord Cromwell’s; you could have risen to the top had you not fallen out with him.’
‘His price was too high.’
‘Ah, yes, we councillors are wicked men. But you, I think, like above all to feel you are in the right. Helping the poor and weak. Justified, as the radical Protestants say. As consolation for how you look, perhaps.’ He smiled ironically. ‘You know, there are men of conscience on the Privy Council. People like me and Paulet and Wriothesley sit round the council table and listen to them; Hertford snarling at Gardiner and Norfolk about correct forms of religion. We listen afterwards as they plot to put each other in the fire. But some of us, as Sir William Paulet says, bend to the wind rather than be broken by it. Those with conscience are too obsessed with the rightness of their cause to survive, in the end. But the King knows the value of straight, hard counsel, and that is why men like us survive while others go to the axe.’
‘Men without even hearts to turn to stone,’ I said.
‘Oh, we have hearts. For our families, our children whom we educate and make prosperous with the help of our grants of land from the King, and incomes and presents from our clients. But of course,’ he said, his face twisting into a sneer, ‘you would know nothing about families.’
Footsteps sounded outside. Peel returned with two gentlemen I had never seen, who bowed deeply to Rich. He came round the table, putting a slim arm round my shoulder. I suppressed a shudder. ‘Thank you for coming, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘My friend Master Shardlake here wishes to put his affairs in order, given what may be about to unfold here. Would you witness his will, as a kindness to me?’
The two assented. They told me their names and watched as I signed the will and the copy, then each signed in turn as witness. Rich picked up his cap and papers from the table, together with two folded letters and his copy of the will. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And now, I must go, I have to attend the Privy Council.’ Then he said loudly, for the witnesses to hear, ‘I am glad, friend Shardlake, to have been of service regarding the girl.’
‘You have done what I would expect of you, sir,’ I answered evenly.
The gentlemen bowed and left. Rich still had his hand on my shoulder. He moved it and gave my hump a sharp little smack, whispering in my ear, ‘I have often wanted to do that.’ Then he turned to Peel, brusque and businesslike. ‘Now, Colin, I want you to go with Master Shardlake into Portsmouth, find a boat, and take him out to the Mary Rose.’ He placed the two letters in a leather satchel, and handed it to Peel. ‘The unsealed one is my letter of authority: it will let you into Portsmouth and get you a boat. The other you are to give into the hands of the addressee, Philip West. No one else. If some ship’s officer asks for it, tell them that and invoke my name. Then you are to wait with the boat till Master Shardlake returns, and get him back to shore. There will be someone else with him. Now go. Is my horse at the stables?’
‘Yes, Sir Richard.’
‘Sure you understand all that?’ he asked mockingly.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Brother Shardlake, put him right if he gets it wrong. And now, goodbye.’ He bowed, turned, and walked out of the tent. Peel stared at me.
‘You have the letters safe?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then please, come. Our business is urgent.’
Chapter Forty-five
‘YOU HAVE A HORSE, sir?’ Peel asked.
‘Yes. A soldier took it.’
‘I’ll fetch it. It will be quickest to ride to the Camber wharf.’ He bowed and hurried away. I stood waiting by the tents, looking out to sea. The sun was sinking towards the horizon; it was yet another peaceful summer evening. At South Sea Castle soldiers milled round the cannon. Men were dragging another big gun across the sandy scrub of the foreshore. Some soldiers had lit small cooking fires; others were dispersing to the tents. The air was cooling rapidly as the sun lowered.
Peel returned with Oddleg and another horse. ‘Can I help you mount, sir?’ he asked politely.
I looked at him curiously, remembering how he had taken Rich’s insults in his stride. ‘Thank you. You must have seen much of the preparations for this invasion, fellow, working for Sir Richard.’
His face became guarded. ‘I don’t listen, sir. I’m just a servant, I do my little jobs and keep my ears closed.’
I nodded. ‘That’s a safe way to live.’
We rode away to the town, skirting the Great Morass. ‘Well,’ I asked, ‘what do you think of all this?’
‘I pray my master gets away if the French do land. But he is a clever man.’
‘That he certainly is.’
There were no fowl on the still waters of the Morass; the guns must have scared them away. We approached the town walls, where the labourers working on the fortifications were packing up their equipment.
‘Were you with your master in Portsmouth today?’ I asked Peel.
‘No, sir. I stayed in camp. We all ran out of the tents when they shouted the French ships were coming. Then the King rode in from Portsmouth.’
We came round the town walls to the main gate. Peel showed the guard Rich’s letter of authority and we were allowed in at once.
The High Street was deserted now apart from patrolling guards, the windows of the houses and shops all closed and shuttered; I wondered whether the owners had all left. Inside one a dog howled. A solitary cart laden with freshly slaughtered sides of beef lumbered past, dripping blood onto the dust.
Oyster Street, by contrast, was as crowded as ever, soldiers and sailors jostling with labourers. Now the French had gone more supplies were being loaded onto boats at the wharf. We halted by the warehouses. Across the Camber there were now soldiers on guard even on the empty spit beyond the Round Tower. The English warships stood at anchor out in the Solent.
‘Will we be able to get a boat?’ I asked Peel worriedly.
‘We should with my letter, sir. Wait here a minute, if you please. I’ll get the horses stabled.’
‘You have the other letter? For Master West?’
He patted his satchel. ‘Safe in here. I am not a fool, sir,’ he added in a hurt ton
e.
‘Of course not.’ I looked across at the ships. ‘But please, be quick.’
We dismounted and Peel led the horses away. I saw the huge bulk of the Great Harry. There must have been a great panic on board when they saw the French coming. My eye found the Mary Rose, where Emma was with Leacon’s company. A company of soldiers marched down Oyster Street. They must have come straight in from the country, for they kept staring out to sea, eyes wide.
I heard a shout from below me. Looking down, I saw Peel standing with a boatman in a tiny rowboat at the bottom of some steps. ‘Hurry, sir,’ he called urgently. ‘Before someone requisitions it.’
THE BOATMAN, a young fellow, rowed quickly out, past heavily laden supply boats. I had a view of the French ships in the distance, the setting sun casting a red glow on a close-packed forest of masts. A sudden volley of gunfire sounded from them, booming across the still water. Peel sat up, eyes wide.
‘They’re trying to make us jumpy,’ the boatman said. ‘Bastard French serfs. They’re too far off to hit anything.’ He turned the boat and headed for the line of warships. Some of the smaller ones had retreated to the harbour, but forty or so rode in a double row, two hundred yards apart, turning slowly on their anchors as the tide ebbed. We rowed out to the Mary Rose. It had been night when I boarded her before, but now, in the fading daylight, I could see how beautiful she was, as well as how massive: the powerful body of the hull, the soaring masts almost delicate by contrast; the complex web of rigging where sailors were clambering; the castles painted with stripes and bars and shields in a dozen bright colours. The gun ports were closed, the ropes by which they were opened from the deck above hanging slack. A boat was already drawn up at the side, and what looked like boxes of arrows were being hauled up through gaps in the blinds to the weatherdeck.
‘I’ll row round to the other side,’ the boatman said. He pulled past the bow and the immense ropes of the twin anchors, then under the tall foremast with the red and white Tudor Rose emblem at its base. There were no supply boats on the other side. We pulled in. Again someone on the tops shouted, ‘Boat ahoy!’ and a face appeared on deck, looking down through an open blind.