Heartstone

Chapter Thirty-one

BARAK AND I sat at the end of the big dining table in the great hall of Hoyland Priory. Fulstowe, Dyrick and Sir Luke Corembeck stood talking in low, intent voices under the old stained-glass window. Sir Quintin Priddis sat on a chair by the empty fireplace, his good hand on his stick and the dead white one in his lap, watching them with a cynical smile. Behind him Edward Priddis stood in his dark robe, his expression serious. They had been sitting in the hall when we returned from the discovery of Abigail's body.

'Ettis had every reason to hate her,' Fulstowe was saying. 'He had suffered from her tongue; he knew my poor mistress was strong against his defiance.'

'She faced him when he was shouting at my client in his own study a few days ago,' Dyrick agreed. 'I was there.'

Fulstowe nodded grimly. 'I know him well as a troublemaker. He is the only one with the fire and recklessness to risk his neck. Sir Luke, I beg you, use your authority as magistrate to have him brought back here. Question him; find out where he was today.'

Sir Luke scratched a plump cheek, then nodded. 'That would perhaps be a reasonable step, until the coroner arrives. I can get my servants to bring him in. There is a cellar at my house where we can keep him.'

Priddis cackled suddenly. 'You have found your murderer, then?' he called out. 'A village leader, opposed to your enclosure plans. Convenient.'

Sir Luke bridled. 'Ettis is a hot-headed rogue, Master Feodary, and an enemy of this family. He should be questioned.'

Priddis shrugged. 'It matters naught to me. But when the coroner arrives from Winchester he might think efforts would have been better spent checking the movements of everyone on the hunt.'

'That is being done, sir,' Dyrick replied.

'Ettis would not run,' I said. 'He has a wife and three children.'

'Full enquiries will be carried out by the coroner,' Corembeck replied haughtily, 'but in the meantime it will do no harm to secure Ettis.'

'When will the coroner be here?' Dyrick asked Fulstowe.

'Not until the day after tomorrow at the earliest, even if our messenger finds clear roads between here and Winchester, which I doubt.'

Barak looked downcast. As first finders of the body we would have to stay until the inquest. But I could not help feeling pleased. The carapace of mystery around this family would surely crack open now. Then I thought, guiltily, poor Abigail.

Sir Quintin looked at his son. 'Well, Edward, you might as well go and look at Hugh Curteys' property, that is why we are here after all. Unless you and Master Shardlake fear another arrow flying from those woods. Fulstowe tells me someone shot at you too, a few days ago.'

'Yes,' I replied. 'Though it was a warning shot, intended to miss.'

'I am not afraid, Father,' Edward said sharply.

I said, 'We will be riding through a cleared area. The big trees have all been felled; there is nowhere for an archer to hide.' I looked across at Dyrick. 'Will you come?'

'I should stay with Master Hobbey. And, Fulstowe, I want you to give the messenger going to fetch the coroner a letter to my clerk Feaveryear. It must be forwarded to London as fast as possible, I do not care what it costs.'

Edward Priddis looked at me. 'Then I will change my clothes, sir, and we can go.'

BARAK HAD BEEN the first to recover from the awful sight in the glade. He had walked silently over the grass and gently touched Abigail's hand. 'She is still warm,' he said.

I approached the body. Abigail's eyes were wide open, her last emotion must have been sudden shock. I saw that a yellow woodland flower lay beside the body, some of the petals torn off. I thought, she must have picked it as she walked here. I looked at the arrow protruding obscenely from her white brow. The fletches were of goose feather. I remembered the boys had carried peacock and swan, but could not remember if they had had ordinary goose-feather arrows in their arrowbags too. There was hardly any blood, just a small red circle round the arrow shaft.

'We'll have to go and tell them,' Barak said quietly. I could hear, faintly, the murmur of voices just on the other side of the trees. I put a hand on his arm.

'Let us take a minute to look round before this dell is full of people.' I pointed to the trees. 'He shot from that direction. Come, help me see if we can find the place.'

We tried to follow the killer's line of sight. A little way into the trees, an oak blocked my path. I turned; I was looking straight at poor Abigail's body. I glanced down and saw the faint imprint of the sole of a shoe in the soft earth.

'He stood right here,' I said. 'He could have been walking along the road, as we were, and like us caught a glimpse of that bright yellow dress through the trees. Then he walked here silently, put an arrow to his bow and shot her.'

'So it wasn't planned?'

'Not if it happened that way.'

'What if she arranged to meet someone here, and they killed her?'

'That's possible. But she may have come here to get away from all the company, as I did. It can't have been easy sitting with those women, knowing they had probably been told about David.'

Barak looked at the body. 'Poor creature. What harm did she ever really do anyone? She was bad-tempered and rude, but so are many. Why kill her?'

'I don't know. Unless she had other secrets besides David, and someone took the chance to silence her.' I remembered the conversation I had overheard between Abigail and Hobbey. 'She was afraid that something would happen on the hunt. And now it has.'

WHEN WE WALKED into the clearing I saw everyone had returned. Hugh and David, with Hobbey, Fulstowe and Dyrick, stood watching with the rest of the party as servants in bloody smocks cut open the stomach of a large doe under Avery's supervision. Five more had been dumped in a heap nearby. The unmaking of the quarry, I remembered they called this.

The dogs had been leashed and were held by the villagers. They pulled forward, panting and wagging their tails. Avery reached deep into the doe's innards and with a hefty tug pulled out a long trail of intestines. He cut them to pieces with a large knife and threw chunks to the dogs; their reward.

I told Fulstowe first, taking him aside. He was shocked out of his normal calm, his eyes opened wide and he stepped backwards, crying, 'What?' in a voice that made everybody turn. Then he collected himself, his face setting in tight lines.

'Best not tell everyone at once,' I said quietly.

'I must tell Master Hobbey and the boys.'

I looked on as Fulstowe went to Hobbey, then Hugh, then David, speaking quietly to each in turn. Their reactions were entirely different. Hobbey had been watching the unmaking with an indulgent smile, his composure restored after his fall. When Fulstowe told him he stood still for a moment. Then he staggered backwards and would have fallen had not a servant grasped him. He stood, half-supported by the man, staring at Fulstowe as he approached Hugh and David. Hugh frowned, looked unbelieving, but David screamed, 'Mother! My mother!' He reached out his hand in a strange gesture, as though clawing at the air for support, but when Fulstowe reached out to him he batted his hands away, then began weeping piteously.

Everyone was looking at the family now, in puzzlement and fear. The women rose from their cushions. Fulstowe stood and addressed everyone.

'There has been—' he paused—'an accident. To Mistress Abigail. I fear she is dead. Sir Luke, would you please come with me?'

There were gasps and exclamations. 'Please,' Fulstowe said, 'Master Dyrick, Master Shardlake, come too.'

I stepped forward. 'Fulstowe, are there any servants who have been on duty waiting on the women the whole morning?'

Fulstowe considered, then pointed to a boy Hugh and David's age. 'Moorcock, you've been here all the time, haven't you?'

The boy nodded, looking frightened.

'Lad,' I asked, 'when did Mistress Abigail leave the clearing?'

'About twenty minutes ago. I heard her tell Mistress Stannard she needed to go to the pissing place.'

One of the ladies spoke up. 'She did, but she went in the wrong direction. The appointed place is over there.' She pointed to a little path some way off.

'Who from the hunting party was back in the clearing by then?' I asked the servant.

'Hardly anybody, sir. Sir Luke had returned, then Master Avery, who said the stag had turned at bay. I think everyone else came back after Mistress Hobbey left.'

Mistress Stannard looked at Fulstowe. 'What has happened to her?'

He did not reply. I said, 'Master Avery, would you come too?' He rose, brushing bloody hands on his smock, and followed us back into the trees.

IN THE DELL bluebottles were buzzing round the wound on Abigail's brow. Corembeck's mouth dropped open. 'Murder,' he breathed. Dyrick for once said nothing, staring at the corpse in horror.

'I thought it best to keep that quiet for now,' Fulstowe said. 'You, Sir Luke, are the magistrate. What should we do?'

'Who found the body?'

I stepped forward. 'My clerk and I.'

'We must send to Winchester, for Coroner Trevelyan. At once.' Corembeck put a hand to his brow, where sweat stood out.

'Why is Avery here?' Fulstowe asked me, nodding to the bloodstained huntmaster. 'This is hardly appropriate—'

'Because he knows these woodlands,' I answered curtly. 'Master Avery, there is something I would show you if you would follow me.'

I led the way to the place where the half-footprint was. 'Yes,' Avery said quietly. 'He fired from here.' He bent to a branch just in front of me; a twig was broken off, hanging by its stem. 'See, this was in his way. He broke it, quietly enough not to disturb her.' He looked at me. 'I think this man was an experienced archer. Not one of the household servants or the villagers I have been training up. He—well, he hit the centre of his mark.'

'Thank you.' I led the way back to the glade. Abigail, who had been constantly fidgeting in life, sat horribly still. But as I stepped into the glade I saw someone else had arrived there. Hugh Curteys was in the act of picking up the flower Abigail had dropped. He placed it gently in her lap, then muttered something. It sounded like, 'You deserved this.'

WHEN WE RETURNED to the clearing the stag had been brought in on the cart. It was left with the does, and a long procession of shocked guests and servants filed back to the house. David, still weeping, was supported by his father. Hobbey's face remained blank with shock. Behind them Hugh walked with Fulstowe, saying nothing.

'It could have been Hugh or David,' Barak said quietly.

'Or Fulstowe. Why, almost nobody from the hunt was back when Abigail left the clearing.'

Dyrick fell into step with us. 'Avery's wrong,' he said. 'It could have been someone from the village. So many young men practise archery nowadays. Older ones too. Well, we won't be leaving here tomorrow,' he added bitterly. 'We'll have to wait for the coroner. Me as Master Hobbey's lawyer, you two as first finders. We'll be here till the inquest. Damn it.'

Did he feel nothing for Abigail? I stared at him. 'I want to see my children,' he snapped.

You could have done it, I thought, you flounced off alone after Hobbey snapped at you. And you are an archer: you were talking about teaching your son.

Barak's shoulders slumped. 'I begin to wonder if I'll ever see my child born now,' he said sorrowfully. 'I must write to Tamasin.'

'And I to Warner.'

We arrived back at the house. As we approached the steps to the porch, the front door banged open and Leonard Ettis marched out, a frown on his face. He stopped and stared at the procession, the weeping David supported by the pale, shocked Hobbey.

Fulstowe strode over to Ettis. 'What are you doing here?' he barked.

'I came to see you,' he retorted. 'To find out if your men still intend to enter our woods this week. Or try to. But there was nobody here but that savage-mouthed old cripple sitting in the hall.'

'Mind your tongue,' Fulstowe snapped.

'Oh yes, watch what I say.' Ettis laughed. 'It'll be a different story when I lead the village militia to fight the French.'

Barak and I exchanged glances. 'Priddis,' I said. 'I had forgotten all about him.'

'It was the hunt today.' Fulstowe looked narrowly at Ettis. 'Surely you had not forgotten that?'

'I thought you might be back and this matter can't wait. We need an answer from you.' He looked over the little crowd, stared again at Hobbey and David. 'Has something happened?'

'Mistress Hobbey is dead,' Fulstowe replied bluntly.

Ettis stared. 'What?'

'Shot dead with an arrow by an unknown assailant. Which way did you come to the house, Ettis?'

The yeoman's eyes widened. 'You—do you accuse me?'

Corembeck stepped forward. 'Which way did you come, Ettis?'

Ettis glared at him. 'From the village.'

'Not through the woods?'

'No!'

'Alone?' Fulstowe asked.

Ettis took a step forward and for a moment I thought he would strike the steward. Then he turned and marched away down the drive. Dyrick looked meaningfully at Corembeck.

We walked into the hall, where Priddis and his son sat waiting. Fulstowe told them what had happened. I saw the old man's eyes light up with greedy curiosity. For him, I realized, this was an unexpected piece of excitement.

I WENT UPSTAIRS to change for my ride with Edward Priddis. I felt guilty now for wanting to stay. Barak wanted so much to return to Tamasin. Looking out of the window, I remembered, sadly, Feaveryear and the two boys practising at the butts. David and Hugh had both disappeared to their rooms when we returned; I did not know who, if anyone, was with them.

When I went back downstairs Sir Quintin was still ensconced in his chair by the fireplace with his son, watching all that was going on with horrible amused interest. I asked Barak to stay in the great hall, and listen to all that was said. Edward rose and we went to fetch the horses. As we rode out, Edward's manner was cool and distant, but civil enough.

'This is a terrible thing for you to find here,' I said.

He nodded seriously. 'These are strange and dreadful times.'

'What news of the French in Portsmouth?' I asked.

'They say their fleet has been sighted off the Sussex coast. People are becoming fearful.'

'Yes, there is much fear underneath people's show of confidence.'

'Nonetheless,' he said firmly, 'we must face whatever comes.'

I studied him. Edward had bushy eyebrows like his father, and a firm, obstinate set to his mouth. 'I believe your father knows Sir Richard Rich,' I said.

He gave me a wintry smile. 'Yes, he is an old acquaintance. We met and had a talk with him at the Portsmouth Guildhall. The day you brought Hugh Curteys there. I hear the merchants who have overcharged the army or provided bad food come to Sir Richard Rich in fear and trembling. I imagine he will soon cut through their excuses about having to charge more because of the new coinage. Sir Richard learned the art of interrogation under a master. Cromwell. But you will know that.' Again that wintry smile, a piercing look from those blue eyes.

'Rich spoke of me?'

Edward smiled coldly. 'A little. He asked my father about the case you have on down here. He said you can become—very strongly involved with your clients.'

'No bad thing in a lawyer, surely, Brother.' I inclined my head, hiding the anxiety I felt at Rich's continued interest in me.

'True.'

'Did you qualify at Gray's Inn, like your father?'

'I did. I worked on official service in London for a while. After a few years I came back to Winchester, to help Father in his work.'

'You must do the bulk of it now, I hazard.'

'Oh, Father still holds the reins. I am but his trusty steed.' I caught a note of bitterness. Are you waiting to succeed him? I wondered.

'Look over to your right, Brother,' I said. 'Those are Hugh Curteys' lands that were cleared some years ago.'

We came to a halt, near the area of cleared woodland Barak and I had seen on our ride. New trees, little more than saplings, stood amid thick undergrowth and the mossy stumps of old trees. It was hot, still and quiet. I said, 'I think there was more oak in this land than the accounts allow.'

'And the evidence for that?' Edward asked sharply.

'The fact the uncleared area of woodland to the south has a great deal of oak.'

'The soil may be different.'

'It looked very similar when I rode through it a few days ago.'

'The day an arrow was shot at you?' He looked at me curiously.

'Yes. Everyone thought it was a poacher. But after today I wonder.'

'A madman roaming these woods,' Edward mused. He glanced apprehensively at the distant trees.

'Sir Luke seems to think he has his suspect.'

'He may be wrong. Perhaps some deserter from the army is in hiding out in the trees. He tried to kill you, then came across poor Mistress Hobbey. He may have wished to rob her.'

'I do not believe she had a purse with her. The family would have noticed if one was gone.'

'Still, you will forgive me if I say I would like to keep the inspection brief.'

'This area is quite open, and we are out of bowshot from the trees. I suggest we ride through the cleared area, look at how many oak stumps we can see.'

'If you insist.' Edward looked across at the treeline, about five hundred yards away. He was nervous; I wondered whether pride had made him accede to his father's suggestion that we still make this ride. We rode on, guiding the horses carefully.

'I gather your family comes from near Rolfswood,' I said casually. I had decided to see what I could find out. Edward Priddis was clever, and a smooth talker, but I sensed he lacked his father's strength of character.

'That is so. Though my father moved to Winchester when he became feodary of Hampshire.'

'Do you ever visit there now?'

'Not since my mother died ten years ago, God rest her. It was her family who came from those parts. Do you have connections there, Serjeant Shardlake? I do not recall hearing your name before.'

'I have a client who thought he may have family in Rolfswood. He asked me to visit, see if I could trace them. I went there a few days ago.'

'Did you find them?' Edward smiled pleasantly, though his eyes were keen as ever.

'No. But I stayed overnight, learned of a tragedy there nineteen years ago. A foundry burned to the ground, the founder killed with one of his assistants. The founder's daughter went mad afterwards. Their name was Fettiplace, that is the name my client was looking for. Your father was coroner then, I believe.'

Edward considered. 'I remember it vaguely. I was not at home then, I had started at Cambridge. I did a degree before going to Gray's Inn,' he added proudly. 'I seem to remember my father helped the girl, who went mad.'

'That was good of him,' I said neutrally. I thought, I have seen enough of your father to see there is no shred of charity in him. I remembered Reverend Seckford telling me how Priddis had supervised Ellen's forced removal from her place of safety.

'He is not as hard as people think,' Edward said stiffly. 'He does a difficult job.'

'There is another family I heard of, that you may know. The Wests.'

'Oh yes, they are important landowners. Mistress West has always ruled the roost around Rolfswood. Did you meet her too?'

'I only heard of her and her son. He is an officer on the King's ships now. Philip West. He would have been about your age.'

'I met him once or twice when I was a boy. But I returned seldom after I went to Cambridge. You seem to have made detailed enquiries, Brother Shardlake.'

'It was an interesting story.'

Edward brought his horse to a halt and surveyed the landscape. 'In truth, sir, I think it impossible to tell what trees once grew here. The old trunks are all overgrown. And we are approaching a little too near the treeline for my comfort.'

'Look at the new young trees growing up,' I answered quietly. 'Fully half must be oaks. And see all the high old oaks in the forest ahead.'

Edward made a show of looking carefully, though I was sure he had noticed everything I had. Then he turned to me, and asked quietly, 'What do you wish to achieve from this case, Master Shardlake?'

'Justice for Hugh Curteys. It is clear to me this land was mainly forested with oak, though Master Hobbey's accounts show oaks as barely a quarter of the trees felled.'

'Yet Hugh Curteys himself said, at the Guildhall, that he is quite content.'

'He is a young man with no head for business. And when these woods were felled he was a child.'

'So you would go back to the Court of Wards and ask for what—restitution? It would take great time, Brother, and expense, trouble to a whole family, including Hugh, that has just suffered a great tragedy. A surveyor would have to be paid for, and he would likely find nothing conclusive. Consider, Master Shardlake, is it worth it? Especially when Master Hobbey has offered to be more than reasonable over costs.'

'You know of his offer?'

'Brother Dyrick told me, just before we left.' He raised his heavy eyebrows. 'He seems greatly fumed with this matter.'

I met his gaze. You and your father took a cut of those profits, I thought. But I had already decided to accept Dyrick's offer. Without Hugh's support I could do nothing. But there was no need to commit myself just yet as we had to stay here anyway. 'I will think more on it,' I said.

He shrugged. 'Very well. Even so, I think you know you must settle. And now may we go back? I am anxious Father does not get overtired.'

'Very well.'

As Edward turned his horse I caught him smiling secretively, sure the case was over.

WHEN WE RETURNED the house was still and hushed, old Priddis sitting alone by the empty fireplace. He looked up. 'Well, Edward,' he asked, 'is all well with the woodlands?'

'Master Shardlake and I have had a sensible discussion.'

Sir Quintin gave me a long stare, then grunted. 'Help me, Edward, I would get up.'

Edward helped the old man to his feet. Sir Quintin stood, breathing heavily, his useless arm swinging by his side. The whiteness of his withered hand reminded me of poor Abigail's dead face, and I had to suppress a shudder.

'I have had enough of this place,' Sir Quintin said pettishly, 'everyone in such a state. I want to get away.'

'Very well,' Edward answered soothingly. 'I will prepare the horses. By the way, Father,' he added lightly, 'Master Shardlake has visited Rolfswood. He was talking of that tragedy at the foundry—you remember, when you were coroner?'

Sir Quintin's eyes narrowed and he looked at me hard for a moment. Then he waved his good hand and said, 'I barely remember it, it was an age ago. I have dealt with so many cases in my life. Come, Edward, help me outside.' He leaned forward, staring into my face. 'Goodbye, Master Shardlake. I hope you will see the sense in letting this matter drop. These people have enough trouble, it seems to me.'

I went up to my room, stood looking out of the window at the butts. I had learned nothing from the Priddises. I felt helpless frustration and anger. There was a knock on the door, and Barak came in. He seemed anxious.

'How are the family?' I asked. 'None of them was in the great hall.'

'Fulstowe told me to get out of the house shortly after you left. But as I was leaving a rider arrived with a letter for you. I hoped it might be more news from London, but I don't recognize the hand.'

He reached into his doublet and pulled out a piece of cheap paper, crudely sealed with wax. My name and 'Hoyland Priory' were scrawled on the front. I opened it.

'Is it from home?' Barak asked eagerly.

I shook my head. 'No.'

The note was in a scrawled hand, it was dated 12 July, the day before, and signed John Seckford, Curate of Rolfswood.

Chapter Thirty-two

I PASSED BARAK the note. He read it, then handed it back, looking at me hard. 'What the hell does he mean?'

'I don't know.' I paced the room. 'Something serious. I could ride there tomorrow and come back the next day—Wednesday—the coroner won't be here before then.'

He said quietly, 'You're glad we can't go home tomorrow, aren't you?'

'That's not fair,' I answered, all the more hotly because his words had struck home. 'We would have gone but for Abigail's death. How could I know this would happen? And you cannot think I am glad that poor woman was killed. Even though an inquest may reveal what has been going on here.'

'All right. But part of you is still glad, isn't it?'

'Here is a chance to solve both matters.'

'You forget there may be a battle eight miles south of here any day now. And, if we lose, French troops may be marching up that road and in here. It's a fine property for soldiers to loot.'

'That risk we are stuck with. But—' I looked at him—'I will go to Rolfswood alone tomorrow.'

'Oh, I'm coming,' Barak replied in definite tones. 'I'm not staying by myself in this madhouse.'

I KNOCKED ON the door of Hobbey's study. He said quietly, 'Come in.' He was sitting at his desk, watching the sand run through the hourglass. I realized it was the first time I had ever been alone with him. I felt a stab of sympathy. Within two days the secret of his son's illness had been exposed and his wife murdered. He looked bereft.

'Well, Master Shardlake,' he asked with a sigh, 'did you and Master Priddis ride the woods?'

'We did.'

He waved a hand. 'Perhaps you could discuss it with Vincent. I cannot concentrate just now.'

'I understand. Sir, may I express my condolences for your poor wife's death? God rest her soul.'

He lowered his eyes, then said, in a voice suddenly full of emotion, 'Everyone disliked poor Abigail. I know they did. But you should have seen her when I married her, she was so pretty, so light-hearted. If she had not married me—' His voice trailed away.

'How are the boys?' I asked. I thought, in a normal family Hugh and David would have been with Hobbey, they would all have been comforting each other.

'David is in great distress. Fulstowe is with him. And Hugh—' He sighed. 'Hugh is about the house somewhere. Sir Luke is organizing a search of the woodlands, by the way. People from the village are helping, they are much disturbed at the prospect of some madman roaming the woods. Sir Luke suggests none of us leave the house and gardens for now.'

'Has Ettis been taken in for questioning?'

'Yes. He hated this family.' Hobbey frowned. 'Vincent says that if there is no trace of a stranger in the woods, he must be a suspect. Surely that must be right.' He frowned. I thought, Dyrick will be running things here now, Dyrick and Fulstowe between them.

'Well,' I answered quietly, 'it will be up to the coroner when he arrives. The reason I came, Master Hobbey, is to tell you a messenger has brought a letter from the Sussex village where I have another matter in hand. I plan to go there tomorrow, then return the following day to see the coroner. I know he will need to speak to me and Barak as first finders.'

'Very well,' he replied without interest.

I hesitated, aware that what I had to say next should really be said with Dyrick present. But it was eating away at me. 'Last week, sir, I accidentally overheard you and your wife talking in her room. She said she did not want to have the hunt, she indicated she did not think it was safe.'

Hobbey was silent a moment. Then he spoke, without raising his head, but slowly and clearly. 'My wife had become afraid of everyone and everything, Master Shardlake. I told you before, she was not well. She had come to feel that nothing and no one was safe.' He picked up the hourglass, stared at the falling sand, then up at me, a strange expression on his thin face. 'All my life,' he said slowly, 'everything I have striven to build, those I have loved, everything is running out, like the sand in this glass. Do you believe in fate, Master Shardlake, in nemesis?'

'No, sir. I do not understand how God orders the world, but I do not think it is like that.'

'It all began with you coming here.' His voice was still quiet, his tone strange, one of mild curiosity. 'This wretched case. I doubt David would have had his fit without it. You encourage my tenants to rebel; do not deny it, I have my informants in the village. And now my wife is dead. I wonder if perhaps you are my nemesis.'

'I wish to be no one's nemesis, Master Hobbey.'

'Do you not? I wonder.' Still he spoke quietly, but now he looked at me, his eyes suddenly as sharp and questing as they had ever been. 'Well, perhaps I am wrong, perhaps it started with Michael Calfhill, with—' A spasm of pain crossed his face, and he seemed to come back to himself. 'We should not really be discussing such things without Vincent here,' he said, his tone formal again. 'I will see you in two days, Master Shardlake.' And he nodded dismissively.

BARAK AND I left for Rolfswood early the next morning. I could have done without another ride; my bandaged arm was sore and my back ached after the hunt. The weather was close again, the sky grey.

I said little as we rode; Hobbey's words the previous day had unsettled me. I had told myself I had only encouraged Ettis against a bullying landlord, that David could have had a seizure at any time, and above all that nobody knew who had killed Abigail, or why. But I could understand why Hobbey might see me as his nemesis.

The evening before I had written to Warner, telling him what had happened. I told him too about Dyrick's offer on costs. Then I wrote to Guy, saying we were not coming home just yet. Afterwards I walked round to the stables to fetch the letter Barak had written to Tamasin; we would leave them at Cosham for the post rider to collect. On my way out I passed David's room, and heard deep, wrenching sobs, Fulstowe's voice talking in low, reassuring tones.

On my way back to the house with the letters I saw Hugh in the distance, sitting on the half-tumbled wall of the old nuns' cemetery. I went up to him. His long face was sad, his mouth pulled down. He looked up at me, a dreadful weariness in his eyes.

'My condolences,' I said quietly.

He bowed his head slightly. In the fading light his scars could not be clearly seen, he looked boyishly handsome but somehow all the more vulnerable. 'Thank you,' he said, 'but you should know I felt nothing for Mistress Hobbey. I thought I might, now, but I do not.'

'You put a flower in her lap this morning.'

'Yes. I felt sorry for her then.'

I said quietly, 'You were saying something when we came on you with the body.' I looked him in the eye. 'It sounded like, "You deserved this." '

He was silent a moment, then said, 'God preserve me, I may have done.' He stared ahead.

'Why?'

He spoke very quietly. 'When we first knew her, I think in her way she did want to mother me, and especially my sister. But for both her and Master Hobbey, that came second to—' his voice caught for a moment—'to money. They wanted the use of our lands, and they tried to make Emma marry David, as I told you. When I saw her I felt sorry for her but angry too. So, yes, I did say that.'

'Have you ever seen a dead person before?'

'Yes. My mother and father. They would not let me see my sister—her face was ravaged by smallpox. I wish they had.' He looked at me. 'Will you tell the coroner of my words?'

'I think you should tell him yourself, Hugh. Tell him how you felt about Abigail.'

He looked at me hard. I wondered whether, like Hobbey, he was thinking of all the trouble that had come here since I arrived.

I asked him, 'Who do you think murdered Mistress Hobbey?'

'I have no idea.' He frowned. 'Do you believe it was me?'

I shook my head. 'Like you, Hugh, I have no idea.' I looked across at the graveyard. Ursula had left some flowers at the nun's grave again.

'But you heard my words, and thought it might be me?' Hugh's face flushed with anger, highlighting his scars.

'I only wondered, Hugh, what you meant.'

'You said you would be my friend.' He stood then, clenching his fists. I was aware that he was as tall as me, and stronger.

'I accuse no one, Hugh. But from the beginning I have sensed this entire family has been hiding something. As well as David's condition.'

'You are wrong,' he said.

'I rode your lands with Edward Priddis today. I believe Master Hobbey has been falsifying his accounts. Probably in league with Sir Quintin. I think they may have robbed you of hundreds of pounds.'

An expression of contempt crossed his face. 'When will you realize, sir, I care naught, one way or the other? And now, Master Shardlake, please leave me alone.'

ON THE RIDE we saw more supply carts heading south, carrying everything from carpenters' equipment to pikes and helmets. We pulled in to allow another company of archers to pass. I wondered how Leacon's company was faring, whether they had been on board the ships yet.

Around noon we turned into the road to Sussex. We stopped for some food at the inn I had visited on my previous journey. 'You've been very quiet,' Barak said to me over his beer. 'You have that inward expression you wear when something bites at you.'

'I am thinking I have done little but make enemies since I came to Hoyland.' I told him of my talk with Hugh, and of Hobbey saying I was his nemesis. 'Hobbey set me wondering whether, if I had never come, Abigail might still be alive.'

'Something was likely to happen to that family sooner or later. They are all as mad as a box of frogs.'

'Who killed Abigail, Jack? Hobbey was right—everyone disliked her—but to murder her?'

'They'll set Ettis up for it if they can.'

'I think Dyrick is considering just that possibility. But there's no evidence.'

'Juries get rigged in these country places. If you want to do something useful, see the inquest is handled lawfully.'

'Yes. And you are right about the family. Their relationships are so—distorted—I cannot help thinking someone in that house killed her.'

'But who?'

'Fulstowe has a lot of power there for a steward. When servants have power over an employer it is usually because they know a secret. One they would not wish to risk through an unstable woman blurting it out.'

'But what secret?'

'I don't know.' I looked at him. 'Thank you again for coming with me.'

'Truth to tell, if I was there I would only be pacing around waiting for another messenger. I'm famished for news of Tamasin.'

'Maybe even the royal messengers are finding it hard to get through.'

'If only I could get home,' he said with sudden intensity.

I smiled sadly. 'Is it not strange how even in death, poor Abigail seems to be a nuisance to everyone? She was killed by an archer of some skill. But that covers so many possibilities. The boys, Fulstowe, Ettis. Even Dyrick said he was once a skilled archer and is teaching his children.'

'But not Hobbey?'

I shook my head. 'He does not have the skill or the—the passion, that is the word. It was a passionate, angry act. Someone who knew he would be hanged if he were caught but, at the moment he saw her at least, did not care.'

'Not old Ursula then. She hated Abigail all right, but I can't see her pulling a bow.'

'Now you are being foolish.' I drained my mug of beer. 'Come, we should be back on the road.'

'Only trying to lighten your mood a little. God knows we could both do with it.'

Chapter Thirty-three

IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when we reached Rolfswood. The clouds had thickened; it looked as though another summer rainstorm was on the way. The little town presented the same sleepy aspect it had before. I pointed out Buttress's house. 'That was once Ellen's. He got it cheap. He's a friend of Priddis, or was.'

'Could he be paying Ellen's fees at the Bedlam as part of some deal?'

I shook my head. 'The house is not worth that much.' I pointed over the fields to the church. 'Seckford lives in the vicarage there.'

Barak squinted at the building. 'Looks tumbledown.'

'It is. So is he, I'm afraid.'

He said quietly, 'There's a woman looking at us from the doorway of that inn.'

I glanced across. The old woman who had introduced me to Wilf was standing in the doorway, arms folded, looking at us coldly.

'That's the woman who introduced me to Wilf Harrydance. I don't think I'm popular here either. I doubt we'll get rooms there tonight.'

'Then where will we sleep? It's been a long ride.'

'Maybe Seckford can help us. Come, we follow that path to the church.'

We rode up to the vicarage and tied the horses up outside. They were tired and dusty, as were we. As we walked up the path, I looked at the cherry tree and wondered if Seckford still kept to his resolution not to drink before the shadows reached a certain length. I knocked on the door and heard the old man's shuffling steps. He opened it, and his plump face broke into a look of relief. 'You came, sir,' he said. 'Thank God.' He saw Barak and asked sharply, 'Who is this?'

'My assistant.'

The curate nodded. 'I am sorry, only we have been worried. Come in. Wilf has been here most of the morning, hoping you would come—' I caught a whiff of Seckford's breath, and guessed the two old men had already been sharing a drink. He led us into the shabby parlour. Wilf Harrydance rose from a stool. His big dog, which had been lying at his side, got up and wagged its tail. The bright eyes in Wilf's thin, weathered face were anxious. 'I didn't think you'd come, sir,' he said, 'not after my sons . . . I am sorry for that, they were only trying to protect me—'

'I understand, Wilf.'

'What news of the French?' Seckford asked.

'They are said to be sailing up the Channel towards Portsmouth.'

'God help us all. Please, sit down.'

We sat gratefully on the settle, raising little clouds of dust. 'A drink, sirs?' Seckford asked, reaching for the jug on the buffet.

'Yes, please,' Barak answered. 'We're parched.'

Seckford poured two beers, his hands shaking even more than I remembered. He brought them over, then sat in his chair. Wilf glanced at the curate, who leaned forward. Mildly drunk as he was, there was a new keenness and authority in Seckford's voice.

'After your visit, Master Shardlake, Master Buttress was going all over the town, trying to find out who had been telling you about the fire. He knew you had spoken to me, and came here in a great rage, saying you seemed to be querying his ownership of his house.'

'I did no such thing. I only told him you had told me the old story. I am sorry, I should have let you know before I left.' I looked at Wilf. 'I did not say I had spoken to you.'

'He came to the inn and asked me, though. He knows I've always thought Priddis covered something up at that inquest. I said I had not spoken with you. It made me uneasy, sir.'

Seckford added, 'Master Buttress is a hard man, with much power in this town. Forgive me, sir, but I must ask. Were you really enquiring about the Fettiplace family on behalf of a client looking for relatives?'

I took a deep breath. 'No. Forgive me for misleading you, but I am trying to find out what happened to Ellen Fettiplace, for—personal reasons.'

'You told an untruth, sir.'

'I did. I am sorry.'

'You are not acting for anyone else? Priddis, for example?'

'No, I promise. No one else at all. I can say no more, but I will happily swear on the Bible that I am acting only from personal interest and concern, because of some information that came my way in London indicating that something was indeed covered up at that inquest. But I do not know what, and it may be unsafe to say more. Please, sir, fetch your bible and I will swear.'

'I told you there was more to it,' Wilf said.

'And I told you Master Shardlake was a good man. I believe you, sir, there is no need to swear.' Seckford looked at Wilf, then clasped his hands together. 'You are a lawyer, sir. Am I right, then, that you could take Wilf on as a client, advise him about a certain problem he has, and would then be bound by an oath of confidentiality, as I am in confession?'

'Yes, that is true.' I looked at Wilf. 'But this matter—if is it anything to do with who started the fire at the foundry, I could not keep it secret.'

'It isn't.' Wilf shook his head vigorously. 'It's about something I found.'

Seckford said, 'It concerns the circumstances in which Wilf found it.'

'Then I will do what I can to advise you.'

Seckford said, 'I heard that for a lawyer to be bound to a client money has to pass.'

'That is not strictly true. I can act pro bono, for the public good.'

'I'd rather money changed hands,' Wilf said firmly. 'In front of Master Seckford.' He reached to the purse at his belt and pulled out a sixpence, an old coin of true silver. 'Is this enough?' he asked.

I hesitated, then reached out and took the coin. 'Yes. There, Wilf, you are my client. By law I may not reveal anything you tell me, to anyone.'

Wilf took a deep breath, then bent to pat the big dog. 'Me and Caesar here, this time of year we go hunting for truffles in the woods. Master Buttress owns the woods now, and everything in them. Though he talks of having them cut down to sell the timber, he's still jealous of his property.'

'You could call what Wilf does poaching,' Seckford said quietly. 'The penalties are severe, and Master Buttress is one to ensure a prosecution. He's a magistrate.'

I said, 'There would need to be evidence.' I looked at Wilf. 'Is there any?'

His eyes bored into mine. 'Yes.' He paused, then continued. 'Two days ago, I took Caesar into the woods. He has a wonderful nose for truffles. I know the foresters' movements, see. I know when they are in another part of the woods.'

'I understand.'

'It's early for truffles yet, and I don't usually go anywhere near the old foundry. It's full of sadness for me, that place. I remember how it was, busy, the mill wheel turning. I hate seeing those ruins—' Wilf broke off, took a swig of beer, then said bitterly, 'But this time I went up there. I'd heard the mill pond had broken through the dam, after the storms of rain and hail in June, but I hadn't wanted to go and see. But you asking about what happened at the foundry, it brought it all back, and I decided to take Caesar that way and take a look at the place.'

'I see.'

Wilf wiped his mouth and went on. 'No one had attended to the mill pond since the fire. Those gates were bound to give way eventually. Well, when I went up there they had: the mill pond had quite drained away, only silt left at the bottom, which with the warmer weather this month has dried and shrunk. It was a strange, sad sight, the empty pond with the ruins by the broken dam. Then Caesar ran out onto the dried mud, began sniffing and digging at something sticking out of it.' He closed his eyes briefly, then continued.

'I called him, but he wouldn't come, he was worrying at what looked like a tree root. In the end I took off my shoes and walked over to get him. The dried mud was only a crust over softer stuff: once I sank in almost to my knees, but I made it over to Caesar. Then I saw what he was worrying at.' The old man paused and took another swig of beer. 'It was an arm, a human arm, all withered but preserved by the silt. There's a whole body down there. So then I came to Master Seckford.'

'Who do you think it was?' I asked urgently.

'I don't know. You couldn't tell.' He fell silent.

Barak said, 'Someone could have fallen in the pond over the years since the foundry went.'

Wilf shook his head. 'It was in the middle of the pond. Someone took that body out there in a boat—there used to be a little rowing boat—and dropped it in.'

I asked, 'Could a swimmer not have drowned in there sometime?'

'The body's clothed, sir. There's what looks like the remains of a doublet sleeve on the arm.'

'Mary help us,' Seckford said. He rose and headed for the buffet.

'No, sir,' I said to him sharply. 'Please, we should stay sober.'

Seckford hesitated and looked longingly at the jug, but made himself come and sit down again. He looked at me. 'Wilf was afraid of reporting it, sir, you see. Because he'd been poaching. His dog had dug up some truffles on the way, and he'd be hard put to explain what he was doing in the woods. That is our problem. And there are footprints in the mud now, going out to where the body is.'

'I see.'

Seckford said carefully, 'What we thought, sir, is that you could say you came back here today to make more enquiries, and got Wilf to agree to take you to the foundry to look at it. Then the dog can find—what it found.' He smiled uneasily.

'You are asking my master to perjure himself,' Barak said.

Seckford met his gaze. 'It may be Wilf's only hope.' He looked at me. 'He would not have gone up there but for your visit. And you, sir, wanted to discover what happened there. Well, finding the body would put you at the centre of any new enquiry. You could tell them what you told us, that you were seeking members of the Fettiplace family for a friend.'

I leaned back, sighing. Again I had set out on an enquiry in good faith, with the aim of helping someone in trouble, and brought more trouble to everyone involved. Yet Seckford, it seemed, still trusted me.

'I'll take you there now, show you,' Wilf said eagerly. 'Then you could say afterwards that you asked me to go there today. You're my only hope,' he added desperately. 'My sons agree.'

I looked at Barak. He shook his head, spread his hands.

'I'll do it,' I told Wilf. 'Take me to the foundry now, show me and we'll pretend we've just found the body.'

Wilf let out a long sigh of relief and smiled at the curate. 'You were right about him, Master Seckford. He'll save me.'

SECKFORD REMAINED behind. I was not sorry, for he would have slowed us down, and I had a horrible anxiety that someone else might find the body in the meantime. I saw the old fellow reach for his jug as we headed for the door. Outside, Wilf pointed to a path which led up into woodland. I was hungry, dusty, my legs tired beyond measure. But this had to be done now.

We followed Wilf into the woods, the dog at his heels. The sky was very dark; it could start raining at any moment.

'What the fuck are we getting into this time?' Barak muttered.

'Something that should have been dealt with a long time ago. But no secret lasts for ever.'

He shook his head. 'This one might have, if that dog hadn't gone digging. You realize there'll be another inquest. You'll be first finder again. Only this time you'll have set that up.'

'I couldn't leave that old man in the briars. But you don't have to come, you don't have to be involved in this.'

'That woman saw us riding together through the town. They'll be asking later who was with you.'

'You are right. I'm sorry.'

'It looks like murder again, doesn't it?'

'Yes, Jack, it does.'

We followed Wilf along an overgrown path between the trees, alongside the large stream that ran through the town. This would have been a pretty scene in other circumstances. 'This stream fed the mill,' Wilf called over his shoulder. 'Here, Caesar!' He called to the dog, which had got a little ahead and seemed impatient. He stopped, running a hand over his bald brown pate. 'I walked this way to work for many years,' he said quietly. 'It was so busy then, carts coming down here with loads of iron. We come to the foundry first, the pond's behind.'

We reached the clearing where the foundry had stood just as heavy drops of rain began to fall. All that was left was a pile of low ruins, jagged remnants of wooden walls, black and burned, festooned with ivy. At one end the smashed remains of a water-wheel leaned against a tall, round structure with rooks' nests on top. The furnace chimney no doubt. Beyond the ruined building I glimpsed a long, rectangular expanse of brown mud, through the centre of which the stream now ran. Large overgrown mounds stood on the banks. 'What are those?' I asked Wilf, pointing.

'Slag heaps.'

Seeing the empty pond, the dog tried to dart ahead. Wilf reached out and put a hand on its collar. 'We'll need to find something to dig with,' he said. He led us into the ruins through a gap in the broken walls. Inside, the wide stone floor was covered with weeds. At one end stood the old furnace shed. The walls had almost gone but the big stone furnace stood blackened but untouched, a dark hole at the bottom: no doubt the hatch through which the semi-molten iron was collected. Wilf began picking among the rubbish on the floor. Barak and I stood looking around. The rain had started to come down steadily, pattering on our heads and on the stone floor.

'The building is larger than I thought,' I said. Even now I caught the tang of iron in the air.

Wilf looked up. He had unearthed the remains of a spade, the blade half rusted away. 'If a fire started here it would take a long time to burn up the whole enclosure. And those walls weren't high, anyone active could climb over.'

Ellen's words came back to me again: He burned! The poor man, he was all on fire—One man, I thought. Was the other already in the pond?

'I see what a wreck this place must have been after the fire,' Barak said.

'Burned almost to the ground,' Wilf replied. 'They found bones, of course. Burned right through, charred.' He pointed to the furnace. 'Just there.'

'How many bones?' I asked.

Wilf shook his head. 'It was hard to say which bones were there, they were so burned. But there was only the remains of one pelvis. Priddis said the other bones must have been been burned beyond recognition. Now, sirs, come. Let us see what Caesar found.'

We left the ruined foundry. The rain was still coming down, and I blinked water out of my eyes. We went over to the muddy depression, which gave off a rotten stink. It was surrounded by reeds, dying now from lack of water. Wilf produced a length of cord and tied Caesar to a tree. The dog whined, looking longingly out at the mud. Wilf pointed at a spot near the centre of the pond, perhaps twenty yards in. I saw a trail of footprints leading to what looked like a large blackened stick protruding from the mud. Barak whistled softly.

Wilf pointed to a wooden pole protruding from the reeds. 'The boat used to be tied to that post, see, there. When Master Fettiplace's daughter was little she used to go rowing out on the pond. Someone could have taken that boat on the night of the fire and dumped the body in the middle.' I suddenly thought, Ellen could. But why not leave it in the foundry?

Wilf's mouth set firmly. 'We'd best do it now, sirs.'

He put the rusty spade over his shoulders, and Barak and I removed our shoes and followed him onto the dried, cracked mud, walking carefully. Once the crust gave and Barak sank to mid-calf, swearing mightily as he pulled his leg out.

Wilf was first to reach the middle. 'See, sir?' he said quietly.

I looked down at the shrivelled remains of a human arm, dried skin and wasted tendons over bone. I was reminded of the saints' relics that were forbidden now. Wilf took the spade from his shoulders and set it in a crack in the dried mud. 'Stand back, sirs,' he said.

'Let me do it,' Barak said roughly. 'I'm younger than you.'

'No, sir. It's easy enough, even with this broken thing. I just have to dig through the crust into the mud. But you'll have to help me get it out.' Wilf thrust the spade into the mud. Barak and I watched, the rain tipping down relentlessly on our heads, as he dug. Underneath was a layer of stinking, viscous ooze. Once Wilf stopped, winced, then stood with his head lowered.

'What's the matter?' Barak asked.

'I think I hit the body.' He had gone pale.

'Do you want me to take over?' Barak asked.

'Yes, please.'

After about twenty minutes Barak had exposed an area of thick silty mud perhaps seven feet by three. Then he leaned over and reached down. He felt around, then tugged gently, dragging up another arm. He turned his head from the smell of the ooze. 'Try to find the feet,' he said. 'If we try pulling it out by the arms it might come apart.'

Wilf and I knelt carefully on the wet crust and reached into the mud. The rain still beat down on us all and on those exposed, withered arms. 'I've got a leg,' Wilf said in a shaking voice.

'I have the other.' It felt horrible, just cloth and bone.

Barak said, 'One, two, three,' and we all pulled. Slowly the body of a man rose from the bottom of the pool, the mud sucking at it. The leg I had hold of seemed particularly hard to get out; as it rose slowly from the mud I saw why. A rope was tied round the thigh, a lump of iron on the other end. There was no doubt now: this body had been hidden here.

We hauled the dark, dripping thing to the bank. Caesar strained at his leash, barking. We sat down, taking deep breaths of fresh air, the rain running into our mouths. Then Wilf rose and, gently turned the body over. Producing a rag from his smock, he wiped the mud-encrusted head. It was little more than a skull with skin stretched over the bones, but it still had hair.

He wiped the neck and the collar of what I saw were the rags of a doublet. He bent down and rose with a large button in his hand. He showed it to me, his hand shaking.

'See, sir, the button hasn't rotted. See the design, a big square cross. I remember it, these were the buttons Master Fettiplace wore on the doublet he often wore to work. And the hair is fair, as his was. It is him.' Wilf looked stricken, then he began to weep. 'Forgive me, this is hard for me.' Barak put a hand on his shoulder.

'How did it happen?' I asked Barak quietly. 'Ellen said one man burned. That must have been Wilf's friend Peter Gratwyck. Her father was killed and put in here.' I looked at the body, but it was too mummified to show any sign of a wound now.

Barak said, 'If he was killed, why not leave the body in the foundry to burn?' He leaned close. 'And who was there? Ellen was, we know, but was anyone else?'

I turned to Wilf. 'Did anyone from round here, apart from Master Fettiplace and your friend Gratwyck, go missing at the time of the fire? Someone who might have done this and fled?'

Wilf's face was streaked with mud and tears and rain. 'No sir,' he said, 'nobody.'

Chapter Thirty-four

WILF INSISTED we put Fettiplace's body under cover, and we placed the desiccated corpse against an inside wall of the ruined foundry, protecting it with loose planks. It was sickening to carry; I feared it might come apart. Afterwards I looked over the cracked mud where the body had lain; already the space, and our footsteps, were filling with rainwater. Then we walked back, sodden and dripping.

'Now I suppose we have to go to Buttress,' Barak said quietly, 'as magistrate.'

'Yes. He will have to set enquiries in motion, and notify the Sussex coroner.' I shook my head. 'Murder follows me on this journey.'

'The common factor in each is Priddis's involvement.' Barak lowered his voice to a whisper, though Wilf was ahead with Caesar. 'You said Ellen's signature on the deed conveying the house was forged. Do you think Buttress knows?'

'He could do. I didn't like what I saw of him.'

The vicarage came into view. I took Wilf's arm. 'You should send for your sons,' I said gently. 'You have had a shock.'

He came to himself, looked at me. 'You'll say nothing about my poaching?'

'No. I promised. We shall tell the story as we agreed, that I asked you to show me the old foundry buildings today.'

Seckford had seen us approaching and came into his garden. 'What did you find?' he asked apprehensively.

'The body of Master Fettiplace.' I took the curate's soft plump arm, and looked him in the face. 'Sir, Wilf will need you sober now. We all will.'

He took a deep breath and turned to Wilf. 'His body will have a Christian burial. I shall see to it.'

We went into the parlour. Seckford spoke with sudden firmness. 'That jug, Master Shardlake, will you take it out to the kitchen?'

I took his beer to a filthy little room behind the parlour, where flies buzzed over dirty plates. Seckford seemed barely able to care for himself, but once he had cared for Ellen. I returned to the parlour, where Wilf was hunched on the settle. Seckford was in his chair.

'Master Seckford,' I said, 'I think we must go to Master Buttress, now. All four of us.'

'Will the truth be found?' he asked. 'This time?'

'I hope so. Now listen please, both of you. I beg you to stay quiet about my personal interest. Let Buttress continue to think I have merely been trying to trace family links for a client.'

Seckford looked at me with sudden sharpness. 'But if you found something out in London, surely that must come out now.'

'There are reasons I should say nothing yet. Please trust me.' More than ever now I did not want Buttress, or his allies, to discover where Ellen was—assuming they did not know already. I hoped desperately that I had done enough to protect her, and suddenly wished Wilf had never stumbled on that body. The old man was looking at me doubtfully again.

Seckford came to my rescue. 'We must trust Master Shardlake, Wilf. Do not say more than you have to in dealing with people like Buttress, eh, Master Shardlake?'

'Exactly.' I felt a rush of gratitude for Seckford's trust. He stood, went over to Wilf and patted his arm. 'We can call at the church on the way, I will write a note for the verger to take to your sons.'

AN HOUR LATER I sat again in Master Buttress's well-appointed parlour. There was a fresh vase of flowers on the table, their scent cloying. Seckford sat beside me, his plump cheeks sweating a little, while Barak and Wilf stood behind us. Buttress had offered chairs only to Seckford and me, though Wilf looked shocked and ill.

Buttress himself walked up and down the room, hands clasped behind his broad back, as I told him of the discovery in the pond. When I had finished he ran a big hand through his grey curly hair, thinking. Then he came and stood looking down at me.

'What I do not understand, Master Shardlake,' he said with blustering aggression, 'is why you went ferreting about at the foundry. When you came before your concern seemed to be in querying my right to this house.'

'I did not imply anything of the sort, sir. I merely wished to see if there was an address for Mistress Fettiplace on the deeds. You agreed to show the document to me.' I had not questioned his ownership of the property, but the guilty, I thought, easily take alarm. Buttress, I realized, was quite a stupid man.

He grunted, little brown eyes narrowing. 'In my experience, when a lawyer asks to see a conveyance it is usually because he wishes to query the title.'

'Then I apologize if I caused you unnecessary concern. I see I must have done, since Master Seckford and Goodman Harrydance tell me you made enquiries about my visit afterwards.'

'But why ride back all this way to look at the ruins of that foundry?'

'I had a day without business in Hampshire, and felt like a ride. Master Seckford had told me Goodman Harrydance knew the site.'

'And all this because you have a client interested in tracing family links. Who is this client, anyway?'

'You know I cannot answer that, sir. It would be a breach of professional confidentiality.'

'You'll have to tell the Sussex coroner when he gets here.' Buttress's eyes continued to probe mine a moment longer, then he turned away and made an irritated gesture. 'I suppose now I must arrange for the remains to be fetched back to Rolfswood. It's market day tomorrow—this will be a rich piece of gossip for the goodwives. And I must write to the Sussex coroner at Chichester. Though heaven knows when he will be able to get here. Well,' he continued, looking round the four of us, 'at least there is no urgency. Master Fettiplace was in that pond nineteen years; it won't hurt him to wait a little longer.'

'With respect, sir,' I said, 'this is still a newly discovered murder. Sir Quintin Priddis's old verdict of accidental death was clearly wrong.'

'Ay.' Wilf spoke up boldly. 'I always said that first inquest was not done properly.'

Buttress leaned his heavy body forward, glaring into the old man's face. 'Are you accusing one of the region's leading men of incompetence? Watch your step, old nid-nod.'

'Goodman Harrydance is upset,' Seckford said placatingly.

Buttress turned his baleful look on him. 'I know you and this other old fool like a drink together, Master Curate. More than one. And I hear your services have a papist flavour. Don't provoke me into making life difficult for either of you.'

'Sir,' I said. 'I protest. You are the magistrate, it is not fitting you should bully witnesses.'

Buttress's face darkened, but he kept his control. 'I brought Goodman Harrydance to order for insulting the former coroner. And Master Seckford is no witness to anything. He did not accompany you to the foundry.'

Seckford said quietly, 'I am, though, a witness to the state of mind of Mistress Fettiplace after the foundry burned down, and to the fact she was hurried away by Master Priddis himself.'

I winced, wishing he had not drawn attention to Ellen's disappearance. I said, mildly, 'If she witnessed a murder, that could explain her state of mind.'

'And what,' Buttress asked, rounding on me, 'if the death was suicide? What if Master Fettiplace, for some reason we do not know, set the fire, killed his man, then rowed out to the middle of the pond, tied a lump of iron round his leg, and drowned himself? Such things happen; there was a silly village girl a couple of years ago got herself with child and drowned herself in a local pond.'

I suddenly thought of Michael Calfhill, swinging from that rope in his lodgings. I said, 'Then surely the empty boat would have been found floating in the pond next morning.'

'Maybe it went unnoticed; everyone was concerned with the fire.'

'Why should Master Fettiplace have killed himself?' I asked.

Buttress shrugged. 'Who knows? Well, we shall have to bring the witnesses together. Some of the men from the foundry are still alive.'

'I understand Ellen Fettiplace had spent the day with a young man who was interested in her, Philip West.'

Buttress flicked me an angry look. 'The Wests are an important local family. Self-important anyway. Master West is now an officer on the King's ships.'

'Nonetheless, he, too, will need to be questioned.' I realized that when all these people were brought together it would come out how thoroughly I had been investigating Ellen's history. But the important thing was to get them together and questioned properly. And I would be there.

'It will take time to put these wheels in motion,' Buttress said. I realized he would do everything he could to delay. But why? To keep a forged conveyance secret?

He said, 'I expect by the time the Sussex coroner has been able to get all these people together for an inquest, you will be back in London. He will write to you. Unless the French land and we are all so mired in war down here that nothing can be done about anything.'

'I shall keep in touch with matters through Master Seckford.' I gave the old man a meaningful glance, and he nodded.

'Yes, Master Shardlake,' Buttress said heavily, 'I imagine you will.'

EVENING FOUND US lodging at Rolfswood inn; Buttress, unsurprisingly, had offered us no hospitality. When we left the house Wilf's sons were waiting for us a little way up the street. This time their manner towards me was friendly. After all, I had just lied to save their father from a possible charge of poaching.

'You should have left that body be, Father,' one brother said chidingly. 'Let someone else find it. Look at you, you're half dead.'

'I couldn't leave Master Fettiplace there,' Wilf said. 'Master Shardlake will keep me safe.'

'I promise I will see justice done,' I said. I hoped I would be able to. Buttress might not be clever, but he was cunning and ruthless.

Seckford and Wilf came with us to the inn. The woman who had first introduced me to Wilf, a widow named Mistress Bell, turned out to own it. She agreed to give us a place for the night. When we parted I grasped Seckford's flabby hand. 'Sir,' I said, 'please protect Wilf so far as you can. A letter will bring me here.' I had given him the address of Hoyland Priory, and of my chambers in London.

He looked at me with bleary eyes, then smiled sadly. 'You fear I will be too far gone in my cups to be of use. No, sir, I will control myself. God has given me a task to perform, as once he did with Ellen. I will not fail this time.'

'Thank you,' I said, hoping he could keep his resolution.

Barak and I were shown up to a room where we both collapsed, exhausted, on the bed, until an hour later hunger sent us down to eat. The inn was full; I remembered Buttress saying tomorrow was market day. As we ate, someone brought the news that the body of old Master Fettiplace had been found in the mill pond and an excited hubbub of conversation began. Barak and I retired upstairs before we could be connected with the gossip.

'Where does this leave us?' he asked.

'With the chance to bring everyone involved together to be questioned. Buttress will drag his heels, I must keep on at him.'

'From London? And Ellen? If this all comes out, will she be safe?'

'I took steps to ensure she was protected. I will take more on my return.'

'And now you'll have to keep coming back here.'

I sat up on the bed. 'I must bring some order out of this chaos, Jack. I must.' I heard the rising passion in my voice. Barak gave me a long, serious look, but said nothing.

'Buttress is hiding something,' I said at length.

'Probably. But where does finding Fettiplace's body actually leave things? An inquest might agree with Buttress, decide Fettiplace could have killed Gratwyck, then gone out on the pond and killed himself.'

'What if some third party came to the foundry, raped Ellen, then killed both her father and Gratwyck? She said at least two men attacked her, she said they were too strong for her, she could not move.'

Barak was silent again for a minute, then said, 'You place much weight on the shrieks of a madwoman.'

'She spoke the truth that day.'

'How can you be so sure?' He folded his arms and looked at me, holding my eye in a way that reminded me oddly of some judges I had known.

'You did not see her, you did not see the horror those memories brought.'

'What if West's insinuations are true, that Ellen herself killed her father and Gratwyck, then set the fire? Priddis could still have had her removed from the area to please the Wests, and done some deal with Buttress so he bought that house cheaply and they shared the profits. You know what these county officials are like, they're at it all the time.'

'I got the impression Buttress did not like the Wests. Rivals for local power, perhaps.'

'You don't want to believe she could possibly have done it, do you?'

I sat on the edge of the bed, frowning. 'I think that, whatever happened, Philip West was involved somehow. That day marks him still.'

'Just because you think so doesn't make it true.'

I said impatiently, 'I want to get West, and Priddis too, questioned at an inquest. That will bring out the truth.'

He still looked dubious, and concerned. 'What is the Sussex coroner like?'

'I know nothing about him. I will make enquiries when we return to London.'

'If we ever do.'

'We'll go back as soon as the Hampshire coroner lets us go. I made a promise and I'll keep to it.'

Barak walked to the shutters at the sound of loud voices from the street, shouting and calling. I had been conscious of growing noise but thought it was traders preparing their stalls for market day. He opened the shutters, then whistled. 'Come and see this.'

I joined him at the window. Outside a large group of people, some carrying torches, had gathered round a pile of brushwood in the middle of the street. As we watched the little crowd parted, shouting and cheering, to allow four men through. They carried the straw effigy of a man, dressed in a ragged smock with the fleur-de-lys of France painted prominently on the front.

The crowd began to shout: 'Burn the Frenchy! Kill the dog!'

The mannikin was laid on the brushwood, which was set on fire. The figure was outlined in flames for a moment, then quickly consumed. 'That's what invaders get!' someone shouted, to loud cheers.

'We'll neuter the French King's gentlemen cocks for him!'

I turned away with a grunt. 'They might pause to ask who started all this. The King, taking on a far larger power.'

'That's the problem,' Barak said, 'you set something in motion and before you know where you are it's all out of control.' He looked at me meaningfully. I did not reply, but lay down again on the bed, watching the reflected flames dancing redly on the ceiling.

NEXT MORNING we rose early for the long ride back to Hoyland. The weather was clear and bright again. Outside the ashes of the fire had been cleared away, and market stalls with bright awnings were being set up along the street. We had breakfasted and were gathering our things together when old Mistress Bell knocked and entered, looking flustered. 'Someone has called to see you, sir,' she said.

'Who is it?'

She took a deep breath. 'Mistress Beatrice West, widow of Sir John West and owner of Carlen Hall.'

Barak and I exchanged glances. 'Where is she?' I asked.

'I have shown her to my poor parlour,' Mistress Bell continued in a rush of words. 'She has heard about the body in the mill pond. Please sir, do not say anything to upset her. Many of my customers are her tenants. She is a proud woman, easily offended.'

'I have no wish to make an enemy of her.'

'Trouble,' Mistress Bell said with sudden bitterness. 'Each time you come, trouble.' She went out, closing the door with a snap. Barak raised his eyebrows.

'Wait here,' I said.

MISTRESS BELL'S parlour was a small room containing a scratched table, a couple of stools and an ancient wall painting of a hunting scene, the paint cracked and faded. A tall, strongly built woman in her sixties stood by the table. She wore a wide, high-collared blue dress, and an old-fashioned box hood framing a clever, haughty face with small, keen, deep-set eyes that reminded me of her son.

'Mistress Beatrice West?' I asked.

She nodded her head in curt acknowledgement, then said abruptly, 'Are you the lawyer who found that body in the pond? At the Fettiplace foundry?'

'I am, madam. Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law, of London.' I bowed deeply.

Mistress West nodded, her pose becoming slightly less stiff. 'At least I am dealing with someone of rank.' She waved a manicured hand at the stools. 'Please, sit if you wish. Perhaps you find standing for long uncomfortable. I will not sit on a stool, I am used to chairs, but I see this is a poor place.'

The indirect reference to my condition made me bridle slightly. But I realized that temperate words and a modest manner were the best way of dealing with this woman. 'I am quite happy to stand, thank you.'

She continued staring at me with those sharp little brown eyes. Despite her haughty demeanour I read anxiety there. She spoke abruptly: 'I came to Rolfswood last night, to visit the market. I am staying with friends. I had scarce arrived when I received a letter from that boor Humphrey Buttress. He told me the body of Master Fettiplace, that we all thought burned in his foundry nineteen years ago, had been found in the pond. By you.'

'That is correct, madam.'

'He said he required as magistrate—required, oh, he loves that word—to know the whereabouts of my son, given his former—connection—to Mistress Ellen Fettiplace. Well, that is easily enough answered. Philip is at Portsmouth, preparing to defend England. Buttress said you wanted him questioned.' She paused for breath. 'Well, sir, what have you to say? What is this old matter to do with you?'

I answered quietly, 'I can tell you only what I told Master Buttress. I have been making enquiries on behalf of a client about the Fettiplace family. I visited the foundry with old Goodman Harrydance yesterday, and we found the body. I am sorry to cause inconvenience, but clearly the discovery in the pond must be investigated. Your son is one of those who must be part of that. I only wish to see justice done, to see the relevant people are called.'

'Why are you in Sussex?'

'A legal case in Hampshire. I am staying at a house some miles north of Portsmouth. Hoyland Priory. I am engaged on a Court of Wards matter there.' I judged it best not to tell this woman my normal work was at the Court of Requests. Her face relaxed a little. I said, 'Master Seckford told me your son came out on the day of the fire to ask Master Fettiplace's approval of a marriage to his daughter.'

'That girl,' Mistress West said bitterly. 'She was below our station, Philip should never have involved himself with her. She went mad after the fire—she was taken away. Will you have an official part in the investigation?' she asked suddenly.

'I am involved now, as a finder of the body.' I looked closely at Mistress West. Was it her who had arranged Ellen's abduction?

Suddenly she seemed to wilt. 'We thought it was all done, but now—a murder, and my son to be questioned.'

'I want to see the truth found, madam. That is all.'

She stared at me, long and hard, then seemed to reach a decision. 'Then there is something I should tell you. It must come out, and I would rather tell you first than Buttress. You may understand, Master Shardlake, that in small towns there is often rivalry between those of good old birth like my family and men like him.'

'Having met him, I can imagine he is—difficult.'

'If I were to tell you something that showed my son did not meet Mistress Fettiplace on that day, perhaps Philip would not have to be called to the inquest.'

'Possibly.'

'He would not want to reveal it, even now. But I must do what I can to protect him. He should have told them at the first inquest. Though we all thought it was an accident then.' She began wringing her hands and I realized she was a frightened woman, on the edge of panic. She looked at me again, then composed herself and began speaking rapidly.

'Nineteen years ago, my son was twenty-two. For his age he had risen high. Two years before, my late husband and I had found him a place in the King's household, working for his majesty's Master of Hunt. We were well pleased.' Her face relaxed into a fond smile for a moment. 'You should have seen Philip then. A fine, strong boy, carefree, devoted to manly pursuits. Those were the last of the old days, sir, when everything in England seemed settled and secure. The King had been married to Queen Catherine of Aragon near twenty years, happily we thought, though they had no son. We did not know he had already set his eyes on Anne Boleyn.'

'I remember it well.'

'My son, as I said, helped organize the King's hunts. I am told he can scarce walk now, but in those days he was always hunting. Philip caught the King's eye, he favoured young men who shared his taste for sport. By 1526 he was in the outer circle of the King's boon companions and sometimes he would be asked to join the King at games of dice and cards.' She spoke with pride, then added in a heavier tone, 'And sometimes, the King would use Philip as a messenger, to deliver private letters. He had come to trust my son greatly. Letters to—' Mistress West set her lips in a tight line—'to Anne Boleyn.'

I remembered Anne Boleyn's execution that Lord Cromwell had insisted I attend; her head flying out when severed from the body, the jets of blood. I closed my eyes for a moment. Strange I had not recalled that when I saw Lady Elizabeth, her daughter.

Mistress West sighed. 'It does not matter now, Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn are both long dead, but by heaven it mattered then. In 1526 no one outside the court had even heard of Anne Boleyn. The King had had mistresses before, but Anne Boleyn insisted he divorce Catherine and marry her. You know the story. She promised him a son.' Mistress West laughed bitterly. I thought, but she only gave him Elizabeth. I remembered the little girl looking keenly up at me as she questioned me about lawyers.

'Well, in 1526 the King went on one of his hunting Progresses to the royal parks in Sussex. Queen Catherine was with him, as was Philip. Anne Boleyn was at her family home in Kent. But the King wrote to her regularly, and Philip was one of the trusted messengers he used. What those letters said, how far matters had gone by then, I do not know and nor did Philip. But Queen Catherine was worried—'

'As early as that? I had not known—'

'Oh, Queen Catherine always had her spies.'

Mistress West began walking restlessly around the room, her skirt swishing on the rush-strewn boards.

'The court was at Petworth Castle in Sussex that August, over twenty miles from here. You should understand, Master Shardlake, my son's position meant he spent much of his time in London; he could only visit Rolfswood occasionally. There were often gaps of many weeks between his visits to Ellen Fettiplace. I think now, if he had seen more of her, he would have realized how unsuitable she was for a bride.'

'You did not like her.'

'I did not,' she answered vigorously. 'Her father had allowed her too much independence, she would blow hot and cold with my son. But her impertinence just made him more lovelorn.' She gave a bitter laugh. 'Just as the King was with that false, faithless Boleyn creature, and look how that ended.' She continued sadly, 'And there was something wild, unstable in Ellen's nature already. She was not one to be crossed.'

'What do you mean?'

'There are things I know.'

I frowned, remembering what Philip West had told me about setting fires.

'Philip had written to tell us he planned to propose to Ellen Fettiplace, and had obtained leave from the Master of Hunt to visit us. Then, just before he left, the King himself called for him. He asked that after Philip came here he take a letter over to Hever. A letter with the King's own seal.'

'Did the King know of your son's planned proposal?'

'Yes. That was why he allowed Philip to come here first.' Mistress West came over and looked at me. I wished she would sit. 'But when Philip rode from Petworth to Hampshire, Master Shardlake, he was not alone.' Her voice shook slightly. 'He had a friend at the court, a young lawyer, who asked if he could come with my son for the ride and his company. He was going on to Hampshire.'

I felt a catch in my throat. So there had been two of them. They were so strong. I could not move! It was an effort to keep my voice even. 'Who was the friend?' I asked.

Mistress West looked at me, and now there was a sort of desperate appeal in her eyes. 'That is the difficulty, sir. I do not know.'

'But if Philip came to stay with you—'

'Let me tell you how it happened. Philip's letter came by fast messenger from Petworth, saying he would be with us the following day. Because he had to go on afterwards to deliver the King's message—we did not know to whom, then—he could only stay here one night. He planned to ride straight to the Fettiplace house that afternoon and speak to William Fettiplace. If he agreed to the marriage, Philip would propose to Ellen that day.' I thought, that is not quite what Philip said, he spoke of asking for Master Fettiplace's approval and seeing Ellen later.

His mother continued, 'If Ellen accepted he would bring her and Master Fettiplace to the Hall afterwards. He said a friend would be riding with him. So we made everything ready for his arrival. The ninth of August, a date I remember each year.'

'The date of the fire.'

She gave me a long, considering look, then she went and sat heavily on a stool. She was starting to look very tired. She went on, 'My late husband and I waited at home, the best wine brought out in anticipation of a celebration, though in truth we hoped Philip would arrive alone, that Ellen Fettiplace would have refused him. But the hours passed, it grew dark and still nobody came. We waited and waited. Then, towards midnight, Philip arrived. My poor boy, he had been so happy to be part of the King's court, so full of life and energy. But it had all gone out of him, he looked crushed, bereft—' Mistress West paused—'afraid.'

So, I thought, she turned him down. 'Had she rejected him?' I asked.

Mistress West shook her head. 'No. Philip had not seen Ellen: he knew nothing of the fire. Because something else had happened that had frozen his blood and froze ours when he told us. His friend, Master Shardlake, had betrayed him. During the journey, some miles from Rolfswood, they stopped for a drink at a country inn. There they had an argument. Philip can be fierce when he is provoked. It was nothing, some foolish quarrel about some horses, but the two of them ended on the ground, fighting.'

'Such things happen between young men.'

'After the fight Philip's friend gave him hard words and said he would ride back to Petworth. Later Philip realized he had probably manufactured the quarrel. For shortly after, as he rode on here, Philip found the King's letter was gone. He had had it on his person. And you see, his friend was employed in Queen Catherine's household. She must have learned about the letter somehow, and used this lawyer as one of her spies.'

'So his friend stole a letter from the King to Anne Boleyn?' I asked incredulously. 'To give to Catherine of Aragon? He took his life in his hands.'

'Oh, the Queen would have protected him. She was known for her loyalty to her servants.' I thought, someone else had said that to me: Warner, the current Queen's solicitor. Who would have been a young lawyer in Catherine's service in 1526. My heart began to thud.

'Philip thought at first he had dropped the letter during the fight. He raced back to the inn but there was no sign of it. So he was left with the prospect of returning to court and telling the King it was lost.'

'But it was stolen—'

Mistress West shook her head impatiently. 'My husband told him to say it was lost. Do you not see? Better for the King to think the letter was lost than probably in Queen Catherine's hands already. My husband told Philip not even to tell us the man's name, it would be safer for us if we did not know. But this inquest will enquire about Philip's movements that night and then he must give the name or be a suspect. This man is his alibi.' Then she spoke with some venom: 'Let him pay for his crime at last.'

I said, 'Jesu, that letter could have spoken of the King's intention to marry Anne Boleyn. If Catherine of Aragon had early notice of that, it could explain her refusal to consider a divorce from the start. Madam, if the King learned of your son's lie, even now it could go hard for him.'

Mistress West clasped her hands together. 'Better my son's carelessness be known than risk a charge of murder. I have thought about it all night, Master Shardlake. And I have decided.' She looked at me, waiting for a response. I could see why she did not want Buttress to be the first to hear this story.

'So your son did not see Ellen?'

'No. He stayed the night with us, then rose early the next morning and rode straight back to Petworth. News of the fire had not yet reached us. He told the King the letter had been lost on the journey. He was dismissed, of course. Then a messenger brought him news of the fire. He came home at once, and went to see Ellen, but she would not receive him. My husband and I implored him to leave her alone, but he persisted almost until she was taken away.'

I looked at her. For the first time she dropped her eyes. And I thought, yes, it was you that conspired with Priddis to have Ellen taken to the Bedlam.

She said, 'Philip went to sea, took service on the King's ships. For him it was a matter of honour, he felt he had betrayed the King. He has been at sea ever since. I am sure the King would consider his honourable service if the truth about that letter came out now.'

I looked at her. From my knowledge of the King, I doubted it.

'Since my husband died Philip has left the running of the estate in my hands. It is as though he is punishing himself still for losing that letter, after near twenty years.' She looked at me again with a sad smile. 'And that is the story, Master Shardlake. So you see, my son knew nothing of the fire, of those deaths.'

I made a steeple of my hands. It was a coincidence, to say the least, that the letter had vanished on the night of the fire. Mistress West clearly believed her son's story implicitly, and was perhaps arrogant and self-absorbed enough to think others would too. But there was only Philip's word that the letter and his friend even existed. I remembered him at Portsmouth—he was a haunted man, but haunted only by a lost letter, or something darker? And if there was a friend was he alibi or accomplice?

'Did your son ever say what became of his friend, the lawyer?' I asked. 'If he was allied to Catherine of Aragon, he was backing the losing side.'

She shrugged. 'I do not know. I imagine he changed his loyalties, turned his coat during Queen Catherine's fall. Many did.'

'That is true.'

She took a deep breath. 'Do you think if that story is told now it would help my son?'

I looked at her. 'In truth, madam, I do not know.'

'I would ask one more thing of you,' she said. 'Please do not tell Master Buttress what I have told you. Not just yet. Give my son—give him a chance to acquit himself in the battle that may be coming.'

I thought it would do no harm to keep the matter quiet for the moment. And it would give me time to make my own further investigations.

'Very well. I promise to say nothing yet.'

Her manner had changed completely now, it was almost imploring. 'Thank you. You are a thoughtful man, a neutral party. And perhaps—'

'Perhaps what, Mistress West?'

'Perhaps there is some way, some private way, of dealing with this matter without Philip being shamed at the inquest.'

'What might that be?'

'I do not know. If you could use your influence . . .'

'I will consider,' I answered flatly.

'If you wish to speak further, a message to my house, Carlen Hall, will reach me.'

'And I am at Hoyland Priory, eight miles north of Portsmouth on the Portsmouth road.'

I looked at her, and thought, anxious and afraid for your son as you are, I have no pity for you. When the time comes I will have the story of Ellen's forced removal out of you.

She gave a desolate smile. 'Of course, long before the inquest, my son may have given his life for his country. I think he would prefer to die with honour than live to see the story told.' Her mouth trembled and tears came to her eyes. 'Die for the King, and leave me alone in the world.'

Chapter Thirty-five

AN HOUR LATER we were on the road south to Hoyland. Mistress West had given me much food for thought. Barak's reaction when I told him her story had been instantaneous: 'I don't believe a word. West told his mother that story to keep her quiet. More likely he and his friend attacked Ellen, then his friend disappeared.'

'And the fire, and the murders at the foundry?'

'Maybe Ellen's father, and Gratwyck, came on them when they were attacking Ellen. Maybe she had refused to marry West and it maddened him. There was a fight and Gratwyck and Master Fettiplace got killed. And there never was a letter.' He looked at me. 'That would put Ellen in the clear for you.'

'Well, whether you are right, or West's story has truth in it, clearly now he holds the key to what happened. Either way I think Mistress West bribed Priddis to get a verdict of accidental death at the inquest. She may have been paying Ellen's fees at the Bedlam ever since.'

'If so, Philip West will already know where she is.'

I nodded slowly. 'And if he was responsible for all that happened, guilt may have driven him to the King's ships. To look for danger and death.'

'He may find those very soon.'

'But who was his friend who rode with him that day and then vanished?' I frowned. 'If that story was a lie, it was a dangerous one. The King would have been angered if he heard a junior courtier had put such a story about. And the timing sounds right—1526, when the King was lusting after Anne Boleyn, but no one had any inkling yet he planned to marry her. There is only one way to find out,' I said decisively. 'I am going back to Portsmouth, to ask West.'

Barak stared at me. 'You can't! It's the fifteenth of July, the King's supposed to arrive today. To say nothing of the French fleet sailing towards us. For Jesu's sake, you can set these enquiries in motion when we return to London.'

I met his gaze. 'West may no longer be alive by then.'

'I thought you were starting to see things in proportion,' Barak said. 'You can't go back to Portsmouth now.'

'It may be the only way to get the truth. And I have had a thought, one I do not like. About who West's friend might have been.'

'Who?'

'Master Warner has been in the service of the Queen's household since Catherine of Aragon's time, and he is a lawyer. He has survived five changes of Queen. He is about the right age.'

'I thought he was your friend.'

'Friends have betrayed me before.'

'Queen Catherine Parr trusts him.'

'Yes. And she has good judgement. But there would not be many lawyers of his age in the Queen's household. And he said once that our present Queen was the kindest to her servants since Catherine of Aragon.'

Barak considered. 'Edward Priddis would have been a young lawyer in London around that time. So would Dyrick, come to that.'

'And Dyrick worked in the royal service. And Priddis said he was in London for a while, but not what he did there.'

'If he was involved, his father would have a real incentive to cover things up.'

We turned at the sound of wheels creaking loudly. Two large carts passed us, each drawn by four straining horses and loaded with boxes of iron gunballs; new cast, no doubt, in the Wealden furnaces.

'I hope we have some letters when we get back to Hoyland,' Barak said. 'It's about time.'

THERE WERE no servants working in the gardens of Hoyland Priory when we rode through the gates. Already Abigail's flower beds were starting to look neglected. To my surprise, I saw Hugh practising at the butts on his own. He looked at us but made no acknowledgement, bending to string a new arrow to his bow.

As we dismounted, Fulstowe came round the front of the house, neat as ever, with his beard freshly trimmed. His manner was even more proprietorial. He bowed briefly. I asked if there had been any letters.

'None, sir. But the coroner has got here. He wishes to see you.'

'Thank you. Could a servant take the horses to the stables for us?'

'I fear everyone is too busy just now,' Fulstowe said with a little smile. 'And now, if you will excuse me.' He walked away.

'That fellow's getting too big for his boots,' Barak said, then added angrily, 'Damn it, I need to know how Tamasin fares.'

'If the King has arrived at Portchester, maybe the roads will be clearer tomorrow.'

He shook his head angrily. 'I'll take the horses round to the stables, since nobody else will.'

I went into the great hall. I stopped and stared as I saw the tapestries of the hunting scenes had been removed, leaving the walls blank. Then to my astonishment I saw that old Sir Quintin Priddis was again sitting in the chair by the empty fireplace. He raised the half of his face that was not paralysed in that sinister, sardonic half-smile.

'We meet again, Master Shardlake. I hear you have been over to Sussex.'

'I have, sir.'

His blue eyes narrowed. 'A successful journey?'

I took a deep breath. But he would find out soon enough. 'I was at Rolfswood, where the Fettiplace family came from. A body has been found in the mill pond there, weighted down, and it seems to be the late William Fettiplace. It appears he was murdered. There will be a new inquest,' I added.

Sir Quintin's self-control was remarkable. His sharp gaze did not flinch. I wished Edward had been there too, so I could have seen his reaction. 'Well, well,' the old man said. 'Death seems to follow you about, sir.' He changed the subject. 'I trust my son was helpful when you went to visit Master Curteys' woodlands.'

'Indeed.'

'And have you decided to abandon the silly nonsense? I am sure this poor family would be relieved to have one less thing to worry about.'

'I am still considering. I did not expect to see you here again, Sir Quintin.'

He laughed, that strange rusty sound. 'A matter I was due to deal with in Winchester has been cancelled. An assessment of a young ward's lands, but the boy has died. The fellow who took the wardship made a bad investment, and thus we are not required in Winchester till next week. So I decided to stop here on the way, to see the outcome of Mistress Hobbey's inquest. And the local Hampshire coroner is a useless fellow, I may be able to render him some assistance.' He winced and adjusted his body to a more comfortable position. It crossed my mind that he might have come back to discover more about my connection to Rolfswood.

A door opened and Edward entered, dressed like his father in sober black, and accompanied by a small, cross-looking fellow of around sixty in a lawyer's robe. Edward's cold blue eyes narrowed when he saw me. As I bowed I wondered whether this self-contained man could be capable of rape, and reflected that those who keep themselves most under control can be the most dangerous when they lose it.

Sir Quintin raised his good arm and gestured to me. 'This man and his clerk are the first finders of the body, Sir Harold. Serjeant Matthew Shardlake. Serjeant Shardlake, this is Sir Harold Trevelyan, coroner of Hampshire.'

Sir Harold looked at us peevishly. 'So you have returned. As first finders you should have stayed till my arrival. A lawyer should know that. I want to start the inquest tomorrow afternoon. I have enough to do in Portsmouth with these deaths in the galleasses. I don't know what the King was thinking of, filling them with the drunken refuse of London. Still, hopefully this inquest should be quick enough, with a suspect in custody.'

'You may find there are one or two problems with evidence,' I answered sharply.

Sir Harold looked offended. 'Master Dyrick says this Ettis is a rebellious fellow with a grudge against the family. His only alibi is his servant. Well, I'll see for myself later.'

'Has a jury been selected?'

'It has. I authorized Master Hobbey's steward to select some villagers.'

'But loyalties in this village are divided,' I replied forcefully. 'Fulstowe will choose only villagers loyal to Master Hobbey.'

'It is established procedure to use the steward to select jurors. And might I ask, sir, what business it is of yours? I am told you are here to conduct an enquiry into the ward Hugh Curteys' lands. But I am also told you are one of the serjeants at the Court of Requests, so perhaps you have some bias against landowners.'

Sir Quintin cackled from his chair. 'Sir Harold is a major landowner up near Winchester.' I cursed silently. There could be few worse men to conduct this inquest.

Sir Quintin looked at me. 'There is a surfeit of inquests these days. Master Shardlake says there is to be another one, at the town he has just visited in Sussex. Though that one, I fancy, will be slower, with an uncertain outcome. A body found after near twenty years.'

Sir Harold nodded in agreement. 'That will not be a priority for the Sussex coroner.' Priddis exchanged a glance with Edward, who had been watching silently.

'If you will excuse me,' I said, 'I should pay my respects to Master Hobbey.'

HOBBEY WAS IN his study again, with Dyrick, but now it was Dyrick who sat at the big desk, while Hobbey sat in a chair with the picture of the former abbess on his knee, staring at it. He barely looked up as I entered. His face was grey and sunken.

'Well, Master Shardlake,' Dyrick said, 'so you are back. The coroner was quite agitated to find you absent.'

'I have spoken to him. I hear Master Fulstowe has selected a jury from the villagers. Ettis's enemies, I imagine.'

'That is up to the steward. Now, tell me, Brother, have you decided to accept our proposals on costs?'

'I am still considering it,' I answered shortly. 'If the inquest finds that Ettis committed the murder, he will be committed for trial at Winchester. They will have to find a jury of townsmen there. I will be called to give evidence as first finder, and I promise you I will ensure that any trial is fair.'

Dyrick turned to Hobbey. 'You hear him, sir? Now he thinks he can interfere with the trial of your wife's murderer. Was there ever such a fellow?'

Hobbey looked up. He seemed barely interested, sunk in melancholy. 'What will happen will happen, Vincent.' He turned the picture round on his lap, showing us the old abbess, the dark veil and white wimple, the enigmatic face in the centre. 'Look how she smiles,' he said, 'as though she knew something. Perhaps those who say we who have turned monastic buildings into houses are cursed are right. And if the French invade, who knows, they may even burn this house to the ground.'

'Nicholas—' Dyrick said impatiently.

'Perhaps that is why she is smiling.' He turned to me with a strange look. 'What do you think, Master Shardlake?'

'I think that is superstition, sir.'

Hobbey did not answer. I realized he had retreated completely into himself. Dyrick and Fulstowe were in charge here now. And if it took hanging Ettis to end opposition to the enclosure of the village, they would do it, whether he was guilty or not.

SUPPER THAT EVENING was one of the most melancholy meals I have ever attended. Hobbey sat slumped at the end of the table, picking listlessly at his food. Fulstowe stood watchfully behind him, and several times exchanged glances with Dyrick. Hugh sat staring at his plate, oblivious of everyone, including David, who sat next to him. David was unkempt, his doublet stained with food, his pale face furred with black stubble and his protuberant eyes red from crying. Occasionally, he would stare wildly into space, like someone trying to awaken from a horrible dream. Hugh, though, was as neatly dressed as ever, and had even had a shave.

I tried to engage Hugh in conversation, but he made only monosyllabic replies. He was, I guessed, still angry after our conversation about his words over Abigail's corpse. I looked round the table: those sitting there were all men. I wondered if a woman would ever sit here again, in this place which a decade before had housed only women. I stared up at the great west window and remembered my first evening—the hundreds of moths that had come in. There were few this evening; I wondered what had become of them all.

I glanced again at the bare walls. Dyrick said, 'Master Hobbey had the tapestries taken down yesterday. He cannot bear to look at them now.'

'That is understandable.' Hobbey, next to Dyrick, had taken no notice.

Edward Priddis was next to me. He spoke quietly. 'My father says there has been a discovery at Rolfswood. That William Fettiplace did not die in that fire, but ended in the mill pond.' His tone, as always, was quiet and even.

'That is true. I was there when the body was found.' I told him how the body had been exposed when the mill pond dam burst. I saw that on Edward's other side his father was listening intently, ignoring Sir Harold's tale of how some villagers along the coast had accidentally lit one of the beacons while practising what to do if the French landed.

'I suppose the Sussex coroner will have to be brought in to conduct a fresh inquest?' Edward asked.

'Yes. Do you know him?'

'No. But Father does.' Edward leaned across and said loudly, 'Master Shardlake is asking about the Sussex coroner.'

Priddis inclined his head. 'Samuel Pakenham will let such an old matter lie. As I would. He'll get round to it in time.'

'They will want to call you, sir,' I told him, 'as you conducted the first inquest.'

'I dare say. But they won't find anything new, not after twenty years. Maybe Fettiplace killed his workman and then himself. There's insanity in the family, you know: his daughter went mad.' He fixed me with his keen eyes. 'I remember now that I helped arrange for her to be sent to relatives in London. I've forgotten who they were. You forget things, Master Shardlake, after twenty years, when you are old and crippled.' He gave his wicked-looking half-smile.

More determined than ever to be at the Sussex inquest, I turned back to Edward, forcing a disarming smile. I said, 'They will also want to call the young man who was connected to Mistress Fettiplace at the time. Philip West, who comes from the local family I mentioned to you.'

'I remember the name. Father, did he not go to the King's court?'

'Yes.' Sir Quintin nodded. 'His mother was a proud woman, full of herself.' He cackled again. 'Everyone knew from her that Philip West went hunting with the King.'

'You did not go to court yourself when you were young?' I asked Edward.

'No, sir. My time in London was spent at Gray's Inn. Working like a dog to become qualified. My father kept my nose to the grindstone.'

The old man answered sharply, 'Law students should work like dogs, that is what they are there for, to learn how to snap and bite.' He leaned across, supporting his weight on his good arm, and said to Dyrick, 'Something you seem to have learned well, sir.' He laughed again, like old hinges creaking.

'I will take that as a compliment,' Dyrick answered stiffly.

'Of course.'

There was silence round the table. Edward and his father flicked looks at me from two pairs of hard blue eyes. Then Sir Quintin said, 'You seem very interested in matters at Rolfswood, sir, going there twice and digging up all this information.'

'As I explained to your son, a client was trying to find the Fettiplace family.'

'And now at some point you will have to trail back to Sussex from London. It does no good to meddle, I always think. Master Dyrick told me meddling landed you in trouble with the King once, at York.'

He leaned back in his seat, his barb delivered, while Dyrick gave me a nasty smile.

THE INQUEST ON Abigail Hobbey was held the following afternoon in the great hall. Outside it was another bright, sunny day, but the hall was shadowed and gloomy. The big table had been set under the old west window. Sir Harold Trevelyan sat behind it, with Edward Priddis on his right, evidently pressed into service to take notes. On his left—in defiance of all procedure—sat Sir Quintin. He surveyed the room, his good hand grasping his stick. The jury, twelve men from the village, sat on hard chairs against one wall. I recognized several who had worked for the hunt. Men who would likely be in Fulstowe's pocket.

Barak and I, Fulstowe and Sir Luke Corembeck sat together.

Behind us were some of the servants, including old Ursula, and perhaps twenty people from the village. One was Ettis's attractive wife, her body tense and her face rigid with fear and anger. From the way her neighbours gave her words and gestures of comfort, I guessed they represented Ettis's faction in the village. The jury, I saw, gave them some uneasy glances.

In the front row the Hobbey family sat with Dyrick. David was slumped forward, head in hands, staring at the floor. I saw he was shaking slightly. Next to him Hugh sat bolt upright. When he came in I had looked at him hard, to remind him I remembered what he had said over Abigail's body. On Hugh's other side Nicholas Hobbey still looked dreadful; he watched people coming in with a sort of bewildered wonderment.

Last to arrive was Ettis. I heard a clanking of chains outside, and exchanged a look with Barak; we both knew that sound from the London jails. Two men led Ettis in; the proud, confident yeoman had turned into an unshaven, hollow-eyed figure. He was set roughly on a chair against the wall. Behind me there was muttering among the villagers, and one or two of the jurors looked shamefaced.

'Silence!' Sir Harold shouted, banging the table with a little gavel. 'I won't have jangle and talk in my court! Any more noise and I will clear the benches.'

Sir Harold called me first, to give evidence about finding the body. Barak was called next and confirmed what I had said. The coroner then proceeded immediately to call Fulstowe. The steward spoke with cold clear fluency of Ettis's leadership of the faction in the village that wanted to oppose the enclosures, the antipathy between him and the Hobbeys, particularly Abigail, and his known skill as an archer.

'Yes,' Sir Harold said. 'And Master Ettis's only alibi is the servant he says was with him marking his sheep. Call him.'

An old countryman was called. He confirmed he had been with his master that day. Sir Harold, in a bullying tone, got him to confirm he had worked for Ettis for twenty years.

'So you would have every incentive to say anything to protect your master,' he said coldly.

Sir Quintin intervened. 'If he is hanged his property is forfeit to the State, and you will be out on the street.'

'I—I only speak the truth, Master.'

'So we would hope, fellow. There are penalties for those who perjure themselves.'

'Isn't there anything we can do?' Barak whispered. 'That crippled old goat hasn't any right to question anyone.' I shook my head.

Sir Harold dismissed the old servant. As he did so, Sir Quintin looked straight at me, raising his eyebrows. He was showing me his power. Sir Harold banged his gavel to quell a fresh outbreak of muttering. I waited till it had died down, then rose to my feet.

'Sir,' I said, 'in fairness, it must be asked whether there were others who might have a motive to kill Abigail Hobbey.'

Sir Harold spread his hands. 'Who else could have wanted to kill the poor woman?'

I paused. I realized that what I was about to say would be terrible for the Hobbey family, but Ettis had to have justice. I said, 'I have been here over a week, sir. I fear almost everyone I met disliked Mistress Hobbey. Master Hobbey himself admitted it to be so. There was—an incident, the killing of her dog.'

A fresh murmur spread along the benches, and David turned and looked at me in utter horror. Dyrick and Nicholas Hobbey turned and stared, wide-eyed. Hugh, though, sat looking straight ahead. Hobbey stood up, suddenly connected to the real world again. 'Coroner, that was an accident.'

Dyrick stood too. He said, 'And there was certainly an incident with Ettis. He had the insolence to call and argue with Master Hobbey and me in Master Hobbey's study; Mistress Hobbey came in and gave him hard words. I was there, I heard all.'

Sir Harold said to me, 'Are you implying a member of her family could have killed her?'

'I'm saying it is possible.' I hesitated. 'I could say more.'

Then Hugh did turn and look at me, fury in his face. I stared back. Hesitantly, he stood up. 'May I say something?' he said.

The coroner looked at Sir Quintin. 'The ward,' Sir Quintin said.

'Well, boy?'

Hugh said, 'Master Shardlake is right, everyone disliked poor Mistress Hobbey. If you were to enquire of all who suffered from her tongue you would be calling many witnesses.'

'Did you dislike her?' Sir Harold asked.

Hugh hesitated, then said, 'I did. Perhaps I was wrong—' his voice almost broke—'she had been strange, unwell, for many years. When I saw her dead I said, "You deserved this." But at the same time I placed a flower in her lap, for she made a most piteous sight.'

Sir Harold and Sir Quintin stared at each other, taken aback. 'Deserved it?' Sir Harold asked. 'Why did you say such a thing?'

'It was how I felt, sir.'

Sir Quintin said sharply, 'When I spoke with you in Portsmouth last week, you said you had no complaints to make about your life here.'

'I did, sir, but I did not say I was happy.'

There was the loudest murmur yet from the benches. Then there was an unexpected sound. Nicholas Hobbey had burst into tears. Burying his face in his handkerchief, he rose and walked out of the hall. Dyrick turned to me, his face furious. 'See what you have done!'

I noticed Fulstowe watching his master. For the first time I saw anxiety in the steward's calculating face. Did he, like Hobbey, begin to see his world crumbling around him? Or did he have some other reason for anxiety? Ettis, sitting in his chains, looked at Hugh with something like hope.

There was another interruption. David stood, sending his chair crashing over. He pointed at Hugh. 'You lie,' he shouted. 'You are a viper this family has taken to its bosom! You have always envied us because you are not like us, you can never be like us! My father, he loved my mother, and so did I. I did love her!' He stared round the room, his face anguished.

Sir Harold was looking anxious. He whispered to Sir Quintin. I caught the word 'adjournment'. Sir Quintin shook his head vigorously, then banged his stick on the floor. 'Be quiet! All of you!' He turned to me, his eyes savage. 'Your behaviour is disgraceful, sir. You are turning this inquest into a circus. You have brought no evidence forward. This whole family, it is clear, is racked by grief. Sir Harold, let us proceed.'

The coroner stared round the room, then asked me, 'Serjeant Shardlake, have you any evidence associating anyone with the commission of this crime?'

'No, sir. I say only that given that many had—difficulties—with Mistress Hobbey, and the lack of any proper evidence against Master Ettis, the verdict should be murder by person or persons unknown.'

'That is for the jury to decide. Sit down, or I will hold you in contempt.'

There was nothing more I could do. Sir Harold called no other witnesses. The jury was sent out. They soon returned with their verdict. Murder—it could be nothing other than that, of course—by Leonard Ettis, yeoman of Hoyland, who would now be held in custody in Winchester jail till the next assizes in September.

As he was led out Ettis looked at me again in appeal. I nodded once, vigorously. In front of me Hugh sat straight as a stock again, his back rigid. Beside him David still wept quietly. Fulstowe came across, took David's arm, and led him from the hall. I had failed to widen the inquest's investigation, at terrible cost to the family. Now nothing further would happen for months. I put my head in my hands. The room was clearing. I heard the tap of Sir Quintin's stick as he came down the hall. The tapping stopped beside me. I looked up. Sir Quintin seemed exhausted, but triumphant too. Edward was supporting him. Sir Quintin leaned slowly down, and spoke quietly. 'There, Master Shardlake. See what happens when people are awkward at inquests.'

Chapter Thirty-six

WE FILED OUT OF the hall into the sunshine. The jurors walked down the drive in a group, while most of the villagers gathered round Ettis's wife. She had broken down and stood sobbing. I walked across to her.

'Mistress Ettis,' I said quietly.

She looked up and wiped her face. 'You spoke up for my husband,' she said quietly. 'I thank you.'

'I can do little now, but I promise, when he comes to trial at Winchester, I will ensure all is fairly done. There is no actual evidence against him,' I added encouragingly.

'What should we do about going to Requests about our woodlands, sir? My husband would want us to continue.'

Behind me I saw Dyrick and Fulstowe standing on the steps, watching. I looked round the villagers; some seemed cowed, but many had a defiant aspect. I said, loudly, 'I think it vital you lodge your case. You must not let what happened today intimidate you from taking action. I think that was partly the intention; I do not consider a jury can convict Master Ettis. Appoint someone else from the village to lead you until he is freed.' I took a deep breath, then added, 'Send the papers to me, I will fight the case for you.'

'Listen to my master,' Barak added approvingly. 'Fight back.'

Mistress Ettis nodded. Then everyone turned at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. A messenger in royal livery was riding fast up the drive. He came to a halt at the steps, dismounted, and approached Fulstowe. They spoke briefly, then the messenger went inside. The steward hesitated, then walked down the steps to us. Dyrick stayed where he was. I had, reluctantly, to admire Fulstowe's courage; there were near twenty villagers there, in hostile and angry mood, but he marched straight up to me. 'Master Shardlake, that messenger has a packet of letters for you. He is waiting in the kitchen.' He turned to the villagers. 'Go, all of you, unless you wish to be arrested for trespass.'

One or two men glared back at him. One called out, 'You sure that mad boy didn't kill his mother?'

'Ay,' another added. 'He's possessed by a demon, that one.'

'No!' Mistress Ettis spoke up. 'He is but a child, leave him alone!' Then she said loudly to Fulstowe, 'It is not the boy that has sent my husband to jail, it is you.' She pointed to Dyrick. 'And that black crow!'

There was fresh murmuring. A man bent down, picked up a pebble from the driveway, and shied it at Dyrick. He jumped aside, then turned and ran into the house. The group laughed.

I raised my hands. 'Go! Do not make a disturbance! And make no trouble for the jurors in the village. Lodge your complaint with me at Lincoln's Inn!' I looked at Fulstowe. 'Now, master steward, I will see this messenger. Come, Barak.'

THE MESSENGER was sitting at the kitchen table, where Ursula had given him some beer with bread and cheese. He stood and bowed at our entrance, then handed me a packet of letters. I opened it: inside was a letter addressed to me in Warner's writing, one from Guy, and a third for Barak, which I handed to him. 'Thank you, fellow,' I said to the messenger. 'How far have you come?'

'From Portchester Castle. The royal party arrived there yesterday. Master Warner said to come at once, there have been delays with private letters. The ones from London are a few days old.'

I thanked him again. 'Let us go to your room,' I said to Barak. 'Get some privacy.'

As we walked round the side of the house he said, 'There could have been trouble with the villagers there.'

'I know.'

He laughed scornfully. 'Did you see Dyrick twist and run when that pebble was thrown? He's like many who are free with bold words, he ran at a hint of violence. I wish young Feaveryear had been here to see it.'

'I was never able to fathom why Feaveryear was sent away so suddenly. It had something to do with Hugh and David, I am sure.'

He looked at me seriously. 'You finally shot your bolt with the family in there. You were hard on them.'

'I had to do something for Ettis. I thought if they knew how Abigail was regarded we might get a verdict of murder by persons unknown. Priddis helped stop that. Did you hear what he said to me afterwards?'

'Yes. He's dangerous.'

'I know. I wonder whether Mistress Ettis has the stomach to take the issue of the woods forward? I suspect the villagers will rely on her.'

'She seemed a woman of spirit to me. Reminded me a little of Tamasin, only older. Now come, let's get these letters open.'

In his room, Barak tore open Tamasin's letter and read it eagerly, while I perused Guy's. It was dated four days previously, the twelfth of July:

I looked up at Barak. 'What does Tamasin say?' He smiled. 'That she is bored, and tired, and heavy. She wants me home.' He took a long breath of relief. 'What about Guy?'

I passed the letter over to Barak and opened the one from Warner. It was dated yesterday, he had got it to me fast. When I opened the letter I understood why; inside was a little folded note in the Queen's own handwriting. I broke the seal. It was dated the day before, 15 July, from Portchester.

I turned to Warner's letter; it was brief, the script without his usual care and written in a hurry.

I passed both letters over to Barak. 'I never had a letter from the Queen before.'

'Lucky you. Well, that's the end of the Curteys case.'

'I know. This room is sticky. Let's get out.'

We stepped out into the windless summer evening. I looked over at the tiled roof, solid old walls and new high chimneys of Hoyland Priory.

'This will be our last night at this place, thank God,' Barak said. He looked at me. 'D'you still think Warner could be connected with Ellen somehow?'

'I don't know.' I took a deep breath. 'Tomorrow morning we can leave first thing. I will go to Portsmouth, and you take the road for London. With luck I will only be there a few hours, and can catch you up on the road the next day.'

'Don't go.'

'I must.'

'The French could arrive.'

'I must speak to West. It was I stirred up the hornets' nest at Rolfswood.'

'And you're going to try and get the hornets back in?'

'I am going to try and find out what happened at that foundry.'

He shook his head. 'Fuck it. Listen, I'll come with you to Portsmouth tomorrow.'

'No. Go back to London. I'll find Leacon, maybe he can help me reach West again.'

'You shouldn't go alone.'

I looked at him. 'Are you sure?'

'Provided we leave as soon as you've seen West. If I let you go alone, I fear you'll stay and land in more danger.'

I smiled. 'Then—thank you.'

He spoke with a sudden forcefulness; 'When we get back to London, you have to change. You can't go on living like this. And nor can I.' He looked at me hard again, but there was concern as well as censure in his eyes.

I smiled sadly. 'Leacon said something similar to me. About getting old.'

'And obsessive. Never more so.'

I took a deep breath. 'Then it seems that now I need you to guide me. Thank you, Jack.'

WE RETURNED TO the house. I thought, he is right, when we get back it is time I made a life for myself, instead of living through other people's tragedies. I realized that was what I had been doing for years: there had been so many, brought by the wild changes and conflicts the King had forced on England, perhaps it was my response to the wider madness.

Fulstowe stood in the great hall, looking at the space where the tapestries had been. He turned to me with a hostile look, his fair beard and hair contrasting with his jet-black mourning doublet.

'Do you know where Sir Quintin and his son are?' I asked shortly.

'Departed.'

'And the family?'

The steward glared at me, any last shred of deference gone. 'I will not have you trouble them. Not after the state you reduced them to at the inquest.'

'You should mind your manners, steward,' I said quietly.

'I am in charge of this household under Master Hobbey. I say again, I will not have you disturb them.'

'Where is Master Dyrick?'

'With Master Hobbey.'

'We leave tomorrow. Tell Master Dyrick I will need to speak with him before we go.'

He looked relieved at that news. 'I will. There will be no dinner in the hall tonight. Food will be served to people in their rooms.' He turned on his heel and walked away.

I went up to my room. Soon after there was a knock at my door and Dyrick entered, his face dark and angry. 'You will be pleased to know, sir,' he said, 'that Master Hobbey is prostrate. And David is much upset.'

'Not as upset as Master Ettis, I'll wager.'

I looked at him. I felt guilty for what I believed I had had to do at the inquest, but for Dyrick I felt only anger and contempt. I had believed earlier that, ridiculously unpleasant as he was, he genuinely thought I was treating Hobbey unjustly over Hugh; but after his role in the pursuit of Ettis I knew he was corrupt and cruel.

He sneered. 'Ettis. Whose wife no doubt will take his place as your client.'

I said, 'You will be pleased to hear I have authority to accept your offer to end Hugh Curteys' case on the basis of no costs.'

'Ah yes, that royal messenger.' He smiled nastily. 'And I noticed you and Master Hugh seem no longer to be friends. And after what you made him do this afternoon I imagine he will be as glad to be rid of you as everyone else here.'

'Oh, it is not over yet, Brother Dyrick,' I answered quietly. 'There is the villagers' case to come. And still a murderer to be found, incidentally.'

'He has been found.'

'I do not think even you believe Ettis guilty.'

'Body of our Lord!' he burst out. 'You are the most troublesome fellow I ever encountered!'

'Calm yourself, Brother.'

'I will be calm when you and your impertinent clerk leave this house.'

'And I hope you remain calm when next we meet, at Ettis's trial or in the Court of Requests. I have your mark now, Dyrick, I see you clearly.'

'You see nothing. You never have. Master Hobbey and the family, by the way, can I think do without your farewells.' Dyrick flounced out, closing the door with an ear-splitting bang.

WE ROSE EARLY the following morning. We breakfasted in the kitchen, and said farewell to old Ursula, toiling there as usual, who thanked us for our interest in Hugh. 'Though you never found why they told that wicked lie about Master Calfhill saying he loved Hugh, did you, sir?'

'No, Ursula. And without Hugh's cooperation, I do not think anyone can.'

She looked at me imploringly. 'You will help Master Ettis, though? He's a good man. He never killed Mistress Hobbey.'

'Of course.' I looked at her seriously. 'Have you any idea who could have, Ursula?'

'None, sir. It was a wicked act, for all her strange ways. God pardon her.'

'Amen. I will not be returning here, but if you hear anything I should know, will you tell Mistress Ettis? She knows how to contact me.'

'I will, sir. Unless the French get us all first.' She curtsied deeply, but I could see my lack of success had disappointed her.

Outside it was another hot, still day. We loaded our saddlebags onto Oddleg and the horse Barak had been using. I thought, in three or four days we shall be returning them to the supplier at Kingston.

'What will you do about the Rolfswood inquest?' Barak asked after we had mounted.

'When we get back to London I will make contact with the Sussex coroner. I will ensure Priddis is questioned. I'll ask the Queen to use her influence if need be.'

'That will all take time.'

'I know.'

'Look there,' he said quietly. I followed his gaze to where David and Hugh were walking together from the house to the butts with their bows and arrowbags. Hugh turned and saw us. He laid down his bow and came over to me, his expression cold. David simply stood and stared.

'You are leaving then?' Hugh said abruptly.

'Yes. And you will shortly hear the claim in the Court of Wards is to be abandoned.'

'I wish it had never been started.'

I held out my hand. 'Farewell, Hugh.'

The boy looked at it, then stared at me coldly again.

'Will you give farewell to my master?' Barak asked hotly. 'Impertinent puppy, all he has done has been to try and help you.'

Hugh met his gaze. 'Like making me tell the inquest what I felt about Mistress Hobbey? A strange kind of help. And now, I am going to try to distract David with some practice of honest archery. We may be needed, mere boys as we are, if the French approach up that road.' He turned on his heel and walked away. 'Come, Jack,' I said quietly. 'Time we were gone.'

AGAIN WE TRAVELLED south through the summer woodland. Trees were still being felled in Hugh's woods. Two carts loaded with oak trunks, the ends still damp with sap, pulled out of a side track and rumbled south towards Portsmouth.

We pressed on, through the rich summer landscape, the air becoming hotter as the morning advanced. We rode up the long steep incline of Portsdown Hill, hard going for the horses, and crested the escarpment. There we halted and looked down again on that extraordinary view. Nearly all the fleet seemed to be anchored out in the Solent now, only a few small ships lay in Portsmouth Haven. The ships were gathered together in three long lines, except for three—a giant, which had to be the Great Harry, and two other big ships that were sailing east along the coast of Portsea Island.

'They're lined up for battle,' Barak said quietly.

I looked out to the eastern end of the Isle of Wight. Somewhere, out of sight still, the enemy was approaching across that calm blue sea.

AT THE BRIDGE between the mainland and Portsea Island there were large soldiers' encampments now on both sides of the tidal stream, and heavy cannon. I had put on my lawyer's robes and we were allowed through when I said we had business in the town. Supplies were still coming, many of the loaded carts heading towards the long line of tents along the coast.

As we rode downhill, Barak said, 'Those are the royal tents behind that little lake.'

'Yes.' I counted twenty of the huge tents, in a myriad of different colours and designs, strung out parallel to the coast. More were being erected.

'Do you think the King is going to camp there and watch the sea battle if it comes?'

'Perhaps. Maybe the Queen too.'

'You have to admire old Henry's courage.'

'Or foolhardiness. Come, let's find Leacon.'

OUTSIDE THE city walls, where men still laboured hard to thicken the mud walls, companies of soldiers were practising manoeuvres: running with long pikes held before them, staging mock battles with bills, improving their archery at makeshift butts. All the men were brown from their time in the sun. Officers, mostly on horseback, rode to and fro supervising them, but I did not see Leacon. There were so many more tents that it was hard to get our bearings. The stink of ordure was unbearable.

We found the place where Leacon's company had been billeted and dismounted. All the tents in this part of the camp, though, were closed and empty except for one some way off, where a young soldier sat alone, eating bread and cheese from a wooden trencher. I recognized him as one of Leacon's men. His face was spotted with mosquito bites, and I noticed the long collar above his tunic was frayed, the tunic itself filthy. I asked if he knew where the rest of the company was.

'Gone to the ships, sir,' he answered. 'To get their sea legs and practise shooting from a ship. I've been left to guard the tents. They'll be back tonight.'

'We saw some warships out at sea.'

'Yes. The Great Harry and the Mary Rose and the Murrain are out, they said. There's five companies gone on them.'

'Thank you.'

Barak asked him, 'How do you find this life, mate?'

'Never seen anything like it. The King is coming to view the fleet tomorrow. And they say the French will be here in a few days. Two weeks ago I was a churchwarden's assistant. That'll teach me to practise archery.'

'Ay, it can be a dangerous thing.'

The soldier gestured at his trencher. 'Look at this shit they're giving us to eat. Half-mouldy cheese and bread like a stone. Reminds me of the famine back in '27, when I was a child. I've walked with bent legs ever since.' He took a drink from a wooden tankard at his side. I saw a Latin phrase embossed in large letters: If God be for us, who can be against us?

'I hope you find a safe billet, fellow,' I said.

'Thank you.'

We rode away. 'What now?' Barak asked.

'To the Godshouse, see if they can tell us where Master West might be.'

'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 turned 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.

'Tomorrow.'

'The King comes then. As principal archers we have to parade before him outside the town in the morning.'

'We shall be gone before then.'

'That we shall,' Barak agreed firmly. 'We leave first thing.'

Leacon glanced over to where his men stood, many looking weary and anxious. Pygeon cast his brigandyne to the ground, where it made a tinkling noise. Sulyard glared at him. Carswell asked the whiffler, 'Master Snodin, may we get back to camp, get some food?'

'Proper food,' another man said, 'not biscuit you have to knock the weevils out of!' There were murmurs of agreement.

Snodin shouted, 'We'll leave when the rest arrive, with Sir Franklin!'

'Was today their first day on the ships?' I asked Leacon.

'Yes. Not a good day either.'

Everyone jumped and looked round at a tremendous boom. Another cannon shot from the Round Tower. There was an answering flash and boom from the Gosport side.

'What are they doing?' I asked Leacon.

'Practising covering the harbour, should the French try to gain entrance. We should be able to stop them, those cannon have a range of over a mile. But if they defeat our fleet at sea, there will be nothing to prevent them making a landing elsewhere.'

'George,' I said, 'I wonder if I might ask yet another favour.'

He looked at me curiously. 'Yes?'

I nodded at the men. 'It is confidential.'

He sighed. 'Come round the side of the warehouse.'

We went round the corner, out of earshot of the company.

'Did it not go well today?' I asked.

'The whole company has been on the Great Harry. God's death, the size of that ship. It has enough cannon to conquer Hell itself. None of the lads had encountered anything like it. Even when we were climbing up the rope ladder, a gust of wind came and it started swinging to and fro, us clinging on like snails to a drainpipe. I could see the men were terrified of tumbling into the sea. Then on board they all slid and fell with every little movement of the sea. And they didn't like being under that netting.'

'I have heard of it. Fixed above the decks, so boarders would fall on top of it. With soldiers carrying small pikes standing underneath.'

'The mesh on the netting is thick, you feel hemmed in standing under it. And if anything happened to the ship, if it went over, you'd be trapped under it.' He laughed; something wild in the sound made me frown. 'Not that most of the men can swim. We should have been given more time to practise; we've been here a week. The men are getting bored and irritable doing nothing, hence the desertions. You can't easily replace skilled archers. The sailors laughed at them sliding about, which didn't help. The sailors go barefoot, clinging to the deck like cats.'

'Soldiers and sailors must fight the same battle. If it comes.'

'In two or three days, from what they say.' The haunted look was back in his eyes. 'We've been told we're going to the Great Harry. As the flagship she will be at the head of the line. The men are all cast down, and Snodin doesn't help, snarling at them over every grumble they make. Being on the ship, he hasn't had a drink all day and that doesn't aid his temper.' He sighed. 'Well, Matthew, what is this favour?'

'George, I would not trouble you were it not important. But a woman's fate may be at stake. I need to speak again to Philip West, that I saw at the Godshouse.' I took a deep breath. 'He is on the Mary Rose. I want to know if you can help me get on board there, this evening, to talk to him.'

Leacon looked doubtful. 'Matthew, they are only allowing people with official business on the ships.' He looked out to sea. The big rowboats had lit their lanterns now, little points of light dancing on the water. The setting sun outlined the ships from behind in a fiery glow.

'Please,' I said. 'It's important.'

He considered. 'Easy enough to pay a boatman to take us over to the Mary Rose, but getting on board may be another matter even with me there. You certainly won't get on without me. Very well. But I cannot take long, I need to get back to camp; the men are downhearted and they must make ready to parade before the King tomorrow morning.' He brushed away a mosquito; now dark was coming they were starting to whine around our ears.

'George, I am more grateful than I can say.'

'First I must wait until the rest of the men arrive with Sir Franklin. He can lead them back to camp, then—'

He broke off. Snodin, out of sight, was yelling furiously. 'Stand up! Stand, you lazy slugs!'

'God's death,' Leacon muttered. 'He'll go too far—' He walked rapidly round the warehouse, Barak and I following. Many of the men now lay sprawled on the ground. Snodin was haranguing them furiously. 'Lazy bastards! Stand up! You're not in your dirty houses now!'

Nobody moved. Carswell said, 'We're tired! Why shouldn't we rest?'

'The captain told you to wait, not lie on the ground like fucking toads!' The whiffler was almost beside himself, purple jowls trembling with fury.

Everyone turned as Leacon appeared. 'Don't talk to Master Snodin like that, Carswell!' he snapped.

Pygeon stood, pointing a shaking finger at the whiffler. 'Sir, he's been throwing abuse at us all day, all we wanted was to rest our legs after being on that ship!'

'Afraid, jug ears?' Sulyard called out contemptuously.

Then a new voice spoke up. 'If going on the flagship's such an honour, let the King come and serve on it!' Snodin turned and stared at Tom Llewellyn. The boy, normally so quiet, had stood up to face him. 'Let King Henry come and do this for sixpence a day, that's worth less than fivepence now!'

'And let us go back and get ready for the harvest!' another man called. Snodin whirled from speaker to speaker, so quickly it made some of the men laugh. Leacon stepped forward and grasped the whiffler by the shoulder. 'Calmly, Master Snodin,' he said in a low voice. 'Calmly.'

Snodin stood, breathing heavily. 'They have to be ready for battle, sir.'

'And they will be!' Leacon raised his voice. 'Come, lads, it's been a hard day, but I have been on ships before and you soon find your balance. And I have seen to it that a cow has been slaughtered for your meal tonight. Stand now, ready for Sir Franklin. See, the rest of the company are pulling up at the wharf!'

For a second nothing happened. Then, slowly, all rose to their feet. Leacon walked Snodin away a short distance and spoke quietly in his ear. Barak and I went over to where Carswell and young Llewellyn stood together nearby. 'Bold words, lad,' Barak said to Llewellyn.

The boy still looked angry. 'I'd had enough,' he answered. 'After today—we've all had enough.'

Carswell looked at me. There was no humour in his face any more. 'It's real now,' he said. 'I see what it'll be like if there's a battle. If the Great Harry grapples with a French warship it'll be cannon tearing into us, pikes thrust up at our bowels from their decks if we board. I always thought I had a knack for imagining things, Master Shardlake, but I could never conjure anything like that ship.'

'The size of it,' Llewellyn said wonderingly. 'It's as big as our church back home; those masts are like steeples. I thought, how can such a thing float? Each time the deck shifted I thought it was sinking.'

'The pitching of a ship is strange at first,' I said, 'but Captain Leacon is right, you get used to it.'

'We practised shooting our bows from the upper decks,' Carswell said, 'but the ship kept moving and throwing us off balance. The sailors were all laughing and guffawing, the malt worms. And it's hard to draw fully under that netting.'

Pygeon had come over to us. 'You spoke well, Tom,' he said. 'All this to save King Harry, that doesn't give a toss if we live or die.'

Carswell said, 'But if the French win they'll do to our people what we did to them last year. There's no help for it, we must fight.'

Sulyard shouted across, 'What're you plotting, Pygeon, you treasonous papist?'

'He's been trying to keep his courage together all day,' Carswell said contemptuously. 'The more he shouts the more you know he's frightened.' He looked at me. 'Why have you come back to this damned place, sir?'

Suddenly a well modulated voice called out, 'How now, what's this?' Sir Franklin had appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed as usual in fine doublet, lace collar and sleeves, the rest of the company behind him. 'Where's Leacon?' Leacon went over to him, followed by Snodin, who looked surly. Sir Franklin peered at them. 'Ah, there you are. All well?'

'Yes. Sir Franklin, I wonder if you would lead the men back to camp? Master Shardlake has asked me to do something for him.'

'Legal business?' Sir Franklin looked at me dubiously. 'You here again, sir? You don't want to get yourself too tangled up with lawyers, Leacon.'

'It should not take much beyond an hour.'

I said, 'I would be grateful indeed if you would allow it, Sir Franklin.'

He grunted. 'Well, don't be long. Come, Snodin, you look as though someone had dropped a bag of flour on your head.'

'Wait for me at the inn, Jack,' I told Barak.

He leaned close. 'You can't ask Leacon to go with you, not with his men in the mood they are. They'd have put Snodin in the water if he hadn't stopped them.'

'He's agreed,' I said brusquely.

'I think you would like to stay and tackle Rich too.'

'Maybe so, to see this done.'

'Then I begin to fear for your reason.'

Barak walked away. I returned to where Leacon stood, watching as Sir Franklin led the men away.

'Will the men be all right?' I asked.

'I've told Snodin to go easy, and they won't challenge Sir Franklin.' He took a deep breath. 'Right. The Mary Rose.'

THE CAMBER was full of rowboats tying up for the night. We found a boatman, a stocky middle-aged man, who agreed to take us across to the Mary Rose, then wait and bring us back. We followed him down the slippery steps. Above us music and voices sounded from the Oyster Street taverns. The man set the oars in the rowlocks and pushed out into the open sea towards the lines of ships. Behind them the sunset was shading into dark blue, starkly outlining the forest of masts.

All at once we were in a world of near silence, the sounds from the town fading. The air, too, was suddenly clean and salty. The water was calm, but out at sea for the first time in four years I felt uneasy. I gripped the side of the boat hard and looked back to shore. I could see the city walls, the Square Tower and, beyond the town walls, the soldier's tents lining the coast, all turned pink by the setting sun.

'Thank you for doing this,' I said to Leacon. 'After that trouble with the men.'

'Thank God I thought to ensure fresh meat tonight. The biscuit's going bad. There's a couple of men down with the flux. And one man accidentally slashed himself with his knife yesterday. At least I think it was an accident. The company's down to eighty-eight.'

I looked back again to the retreating shore. Now I could see all the way down to South Sea Castle, a little pink block in the sunset, becoming tiny as we rowed out further into the Solent. Reluctantly, I turned my head away.

Slowly, we approached the warships. As we drew closer we saw haloes of dim light flickering above the decks from candles and lamps. The sound of a pipe and drum drifted across the water. Leacon stared ahead, preoccupied, then said with a sort of quiet desperation, 'I have to encourage my men, I must. I must try and lighten their mood, though I know the nightmare they may face.'

'God knows you are doing what you can.'

'Does He?'

We had almost reached the warships now, their masts and high castles seeming impossibly tall, gigantic plaited ropes stretching down to the water securing the anchors. The light was almost gone, the bright paintwork on the upper decks turned to shades of grey. The boatman swung away to avoid a stream of ordure running from a beakhead latrine. Voices and more music drifted down as the vast hull of the Great Harry reared before us. Something was happening on the main deck. A little platform had been built projecting out over the water, a pulley dangling from it. It was being used to heave something up from a large rowboat. I realized to my astonishment that it was a large, high-backed chair, covered with an oilcloth, in which an enormous dead pig had been tied.

'Careful,' I heard someone shout. 'It's bumping the side!'

'What on earth is going on?' I asked the boatman.

'Some freak of sailors' humour,' he answered disapprovingly.

We rowed past the flagship to the Mary Rose, the rose emblem above the bowsprit dimly outlined. I craned my neck to stare up.

The lowest, central section of the ship was perhaps twenty feet high; the long aftercastle, of at least two storeys, double that. The forecastle was taller still, three levels of decks projecting out over the bow like enormous steps. A sudden breeze came, and I heard a strange singing noise in the web of rigging that soared from decks to topmast. As we drew in close I heard a cry from the fighting top, high on the mainmast. 'Boat ahoy!'

The boatman steered in to the centre of the ship, between the high castles. I looked apprehensively at the great dark hull, wondering how we would get on board. My eye travelled upwards to squares outlined in tar that must be the gun ports, stout ropes running up from rings in the centre to holes in the painted squares above, the green and white Tudor colours alternating with red crosses on a white background, the colours of St George.

'How do we get up?' I asked apprehensively.

Leacon nodded up at the painted squares. 'Those panels can be slid out. They'll drop a rope ladder down from one.'

We came athwart, and the rowboat knocked against the hull with a bump. A panel was removed and a head looked out. A voice called down the watchword I had heard in camp: 'God save King Henry!'

'And long to reign over us!' Leacon shouted back. 'Petty-Captain Leacon, Middlesex archers! Official business for Assistant-Purser West!'

The head was withdrawn, and a moment later a rope ladder was thrown down. It uncoiled, the end splashing into the water beside us.

Chapter Thirty-nine

OUR BOATMAN hauled the ladder aboard, then turned to us. 'Climb up, sirs. One at a time, please.'

Leacon grasped the ladder and climbed onto it. He began to ascend. I watched apprehensively as he moved upwards steadily, hand over hand. I started with surprise as, a little above my head, a gun port suddenly swung outwards. There was the sound of squeaking wheels from within, and the mouth of a huge cannon appeared in the gap with a strange, juddering movement. 'That axle needs greasing,' a sharp voice called. The cannon was withdrawn, and the gun-port lid banged shut. I looked up to where Leacon had reached the top of the ladder. Hands reached through the opened blind and he squeezed through the narrow gap.

'Now you, sir,' the boatman said. I took a deep breath, grasped the rungs, and climbed up. I did not look down. The gentle bobbing of the boat was disorientating. I reached the blind and hands stretched out to help me through. It was a drop of several feet to the deck, and I stumbled and nearly fell. 'It's a fucking lawyer,' someone said in wonderment.

Leacon took my arm. 'I've asked a sailor to go and look for Master West.'

I looked around. Thick rope netting with a small mesh enclosed the deck, secured to the rail above the blinds and, in the middle, to a wooden central spar seven feet above our heads supported by thick posts running the length of the open weatherdeck. The wide spar formed a walkway above us, running between the two castles; a sailor was padding across in bare feet. I looked up at the twenty-foot-high aftercastle. Two long, ornate bronze cannon projected from it, angled to fire outwards. Two more projected from the forecastle, pointing in the opposite direction.

'What a creation,' I said quietly. I looked along the weatherdeck. It was around forty feet wide and almost as long, dominated by three iron cannon on each side, a dozen feet long and lashed to wheeled carriages. The deck was illuminated by haloes of dim light from tallow candles inside tall horn lanterns. Perhaps sixty sailors sat in little groups between the guns, playing dice or cards; they were barefoot, most with jerkins over their shirts and some with round woolly hats, for there was a cool breeze now. Many were young, though already with weatherbeaten faces. A small mongrel greyhound sat beside one group, avidly watching a game of cards. Some of the sailors looked over at me with cool curiosity, doubtless wondering who I was, their eyes little points of light. One group was talking in what I recognized as Spanish, another sat listening intently to a cleric reading aloud from the Bible: 'Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.' A rancid meaty smell and little wafts of steam rose from some of the hatches with heavy wooden grilles set along the deck.

'First time aboard a warship, sir?' One of the sailors who had helped me aboard had stayed with us, from curiosity perhaps.

'Yes.' I looked up, through the netting, to the fighting top high on the foremast. There the man who had called out our presence stood looking out to sea once more. A small boy was clambering up the rigging, as rapidly as the Queen's monkey in its cage at Hampton Court.

A sailor sitting nearby turned and spoke to me in a heavy, jocular tone. 'Have you come to make them fetch up our dinner, master lawyer?' I noticed that nearly everyone had wooden spoons and empty bowls beside them. 'Our bellies are barking.'

'Let's hope it's edible,' another man grumbled. He was poking something from under his fingernails with a tool from a tiny steel manicure set. He winced as he extracted a large splinter.

'That's enough, Trevithick,' our sailor answered. 'This gentleman's on official business.' He lowered his voice. 'The food's corrupted through lying too long in the barrels, sir. We don't like the smells coming from below. We were supposed to get fresh supplies today but they ain't come.'

'Food is ever the main concern among the soldiers too,' Leacon said. He looked at the barefoot sailors. 'Food and shoes, though you sailors don't seem to worry about those.'

'The soldiers should go barefoot like us, then they wouldn't slip and slide whenever they come on board.'

The Mary Rose moved slightly with the breeze, and I almost stumbled again. On the walkway above me two sailors, carrying a long heavy box between them, barely checked their stride as they walked across. They disappeared through a doorway into the aftercastle. Our sailor, bored with us, moved away.

'I can see why your men were intimidated,' I said quietly to Leacon. 'I've been on ships before, but this—'

He nodded. 'Ay, though I don't doubt their courage in the rush of battle.' I looked up again at the aftercastle. I saw more netting there on the top deck, secured to a central spar, dimly illumined by light from lamps below. Someone up there was strumming a lute, the sound drifting down. Leacon followed my gaze. 'We practised on the aftercastle of the Great Harry today, firing through the blinds on the top deck. It was hard to get a good shot.'

'The sailors seem in a poor humour.'

'They're hard to discipline, they've been dragged together from all over the realm and beyond. Some are privateers.'

I smiled. 'Are you showing your prejudices, George?'

'They didn't mind showing theirs earlier, laughing at my men.'

A thin wiry man in a striped jerkin picked his way towards us; he carried a horn lantern whose light was brighter than the sailors', a good beeswax candle inside. He bowed briefly, then addressed Leacon in a Welsh accent. 'You have business with Master West, Captain?'

'This man does. He needs to speak with him urgently.'

'He's down in the galley with the cook. You'll have to go to him, sir.'

'Very well. Can you take me?'

He looked at me dubiously. 'The galley is down in the hold. Can you manage it?'

I answered sharply, 'I got up on the ship, didn't I?'

'Your robe will suffer, sir. Best take it off.'

Leacon took it. 'I'll wait for you here,' he said. 'But please do not be long.'

I stood in my shirt, shivering slightly. 'Don't worry, sir,' the sailor said. 'It's warm enough where we're going.'

He led the way along the deck to the forecastle. As I followed I tripped beside a group of card players, accidentally sending a tiny dice flying; a man retrieved it with a quick scooping motion. 'I am sorry,' I said. He looked at me with hard hostility.

Just before the aftercastle we reached an open hatch where a wide ladder descended into darkness. The sailor turned to me. 'We go down here.'

'What's your name?'

'Morgan, sir. Now, please follow me down carefully.'

He put his feet on the ladder. I waited till the top of his head disappeared, then began to descend.

I had to feel carefully for the rungs in the semi-darkness, and thanked God the ship was barely stirring. It grew hotter. Water dripped somewhere. At the foot of the ladder there was some light, more lanterns hanging from beams. I saw it was the gundeck. Well over a hundred feet long, it ran below the castles, almost the whole length of the ship. Further down the gundeck some areas were partitioned off into little rooms, the backs of cannon projecting between them. To my surprise there was enough headroom to stand. I looked down at the cannon on their wheeled carriages. The nearest was iron; the one next to it bronze, stamped with a large Tudor rose, a crown above, gleaming with an odd sheen in the lantern light. A harsh smell of powder mixed with the cooking smell; pods of broom and laurel leaves tied against the walls to sweeten the air had little effect.

Men were checking stone and iron gunballs for size against wooden boards with large circular holes, then stacking them carefully inside triangular containers beside each cannon. Two officers looked on: one bearded and middle-aged, a silver whistle round his neck on a silk sash, the other younger. 'This job should have been finished before dark,' the older officer growled. He saw us and stared at me, raising his chin interrogatively. Morgan bowed deeply.

'This gentleman has a message from shore, sir, for Master West. He is down in the galley.'

'Don't get in the men's way,' the officer told me curtly. Morgan led me some way down the gundeck. We came to another hatch, with a ladder leading down. 'This goes right down to the galley, sir,' Morgan said.

'Who was that?'

'The master. He's in charge of the ship.'

'I thought that was the captain.'

Morgan laughed. 'Captain Grenville doesn't know the Mary Rose, though at least he's a seaman, unlike some of the captains. Most are knighted gentlemen, you see, to put us in awe.' Like Sir Franklin with the soldiers, I thought.

Morgan stepped to the ladder and began nimbly descending again. I followed.

We passed another deck, full of stores in partitioned areas. I made out barrels and chests, coils of immensely thick rope. Billows of hot steam rose up from below now. The ship shifted slightly, groaning and creaking, and one of my feet almost slipped. A red glow was visible underneath us, accompanied by a wave of heat, the smell of bad meat increasingly powerful. I glanced down at Morgan; his face was redly illuminated from below. 'Where are you from?' I asked.

'St David's, sir. I have a fishing boat, or did till I was enlisted like half west Wales. Though they still haven't enough sailors, a third of the crew are Spaniards or Flemings.'

'How many sailors on board?'

'Two hundred. And three hundred soldiers if we go to battle, so we're told. Too many, some say enough to overset the ship if they all go on those high castle decks.'

We passed through another hatch, my arms aching now. Then we were in the hold. Thick, stinking steam made me gasp and almost retch, and my face was instantly covered in sweat. There was, too, a rotten salty smell that I guessed came from the beach pebbles used as ballast. I saw, to my left, two large brick kilns, set on a brick flooring, yellow flames dancing underneath bubbling vats of pottage in which thick pieces of grey flesh floated. The flames, the bubbling cauldrons and the sweating walls made it look like some radical preacher's vision of Hell. Two young men, stripped to the waist, stirred the vats. One broke off to feed a piece of wood from a little pile into one of the fires. On the other side of the vats two men in their shirts were examining something in a ladle. One was Philip West, the other, I guessed, the cook.

The cook said, 'We can't serve this up, sir. We should put it overboard and try to find a barrel of stockfish that isn't tainted.'

'Are there any left?' West answered with angry impatience. 'We should have had a week's supply of new barrels delivered today! But you're right, we can't give the men this. It's rotten.' Then he saw me; his face took on an expression of astonishment and something like horror. He stepped forward. 'What's this?' he barked at Morgan.

'This gentleman's here to speak to you, sir,' the sailor answered humbly. 'He says it's urgent.'

'Sir,' the cook said, 'there are three barrels of stockfish left, we can try cracking one open.'

'Do it,' West snapped. He was still looking at me, his face red and mottled from the heat and steam. The cook beckoned to one of the men stirring the pottage, and they went out through a sliding door. West turned to me, anger in his deep-set eyes.

'Sir,' I said. 'I have come from your mother—'

'My mother! You—' He broke off, conscious of curious glances from Morgan and the remaining man. 'Wait a minute,' he said. I stood silently, listening to grunts and bangs from the other side of the door. Then the cook and his assistant rolled a heavy barrel into the galley. They set it quickly upright and the cook opened the lid with a chisel. I saw a white mass of fish within, the gleam of salt. The cook reached in with a skinny arm, pulled out a handful of fish and sniffed it. 'This is still fresh,' he said with relief.

'Get rid of the pork and start cooking the fish,' West said. 'Have you any fresh water barrels left in there?'

'Yes, sir.'

West turned to Morgan. 'Go up, tell Master Purser what we're doing. Say we must get those fresh supplies on board tonight: there's hardly anything left.' He watched Morgan as he climbed back up the ladder, then bent and took a candle holder from the floor, lighting it with a taper. He gestured to the ladder. 'Now, Master Shardlake,' he said grimly, 'let us go up and talk.'

I FOLLOWED West up to the storage deck. As we stepped off the ladder, I heard rats pattering away from us. West stepped a few feet away from the hatch, set the candle atop a barrel and stood facing me. In the dim light I could not see his expression. Around me I saw chests and boxes piled one on another in the partitioned sections. Away from the stifling heat the sweat dried instantly on my face, leaving me cold. The ship shifted slightly and I grabbed at the ladder to steady myself.

'Well?' West asked.

'Something has happened at Rolfswood.' I told him of the discovery of Master Fettiplace's remains, his mother's visit to me and what she had said about the lost letter to Anne Boleyn.

'So the letter is to be made public at last,' West said when I had finished. His voice was steady, angry. I wished I could see his face properly.

'There will have to be a new inquest,' I said quietly. 'Your mother told me the story of the letter must be revealed to protect you.'

He laughed, bitterly. 'They cannot call me away to an inquest now. In case you have not noticed, Master Shardlake, I have business. I may die here soon. Protecting people like you. For my sins,' he added bitterly.

'I know as well as you what may be coming,' I answered earnestly. 'That is why I came tonight, to ask what happened at Rolfswood nineteen years ago. Master West, who was your friend that stole the letter?'

He darted forward then, grabbing me and slamming me against the side of the ship. He was very strong; a sinewy forearm pressed my neck against the hull. 'What is your interest in this?' he said with savage intensity. 'This has to be personal for you to follow me here. Answer!' He lightened the grip on my throat just enough to allow me to speak. Close to, I saw his deep-set eyes were burning.

'I want to find out exactly what happened to Ellen Fettiplace that night.'

'Do you know where she is?' West asked.

'Do you?'

He did not answer, and I realized then he knew Ellen was in the Bedlam. The fight seemed to go out of him suddenly and he stepped away. He said, bitterly, 'My friend betrayed me that day. Then I discovered what had happened to Ellen. It was because of both those things that I went to sea.'

'Tell me who your friend was. Now, while there is still time.'

'Are you working for someone at court?' The aggression had returned to his voice. 'Who is interested in reviving that old story?'

'I am not. I swear, my concern is only with what happened at Rolfswood. Was the man's name Robert Warner?'

West stared at me. 'I never heard that name.' He hesitated a long moment. 'My friend was called Gregory Jackson.'

'A lawyer in the Queen's household?'

'The King's. But he was in the Queen's pay.'

'What happened to him, Master West?'

'He is dead,' West answered flatly. 'Years ago, from the sweating sickness.'

I stared at him. Was he lying? I did not trust that long pause before he gave the name; he should have remembered it instantly. West had stepped back from the candlelight, his face dim again. I asked once more, 'Do you know what happened to Ellen Fettiplace?'

'I have never seen her since that day.' His voice had taken on a dangerous edge again.

'What's going on here?' We both turned at a sharp, angry voice from the ladder. A man had climbed down, a middle-aged officer in a yellow doublet. He glared at me, then at West, who had straightened up and stepped away from me. 'Master Purser,' West said with a bow.

'I had your message from Morgan. I've got the crew banging spoons against their plates and mewling for food.'

'There's a barrel of good stockfish cooking now. It's all that's left. The pork was bad. We must get those fresh supplies tonight.'

The purser looked at me. 'Are you the lawyer with the message?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Delivered it?' He looked at West, who had composed his face.

'I have—'

'Then get out. They shouldn't have let you on board.'

'I—'

'God's death, get out! Now!'

ON DECK the men sat with bowls and spoons in their laps, faces sullen. Officers now patrolled the deck. As I watched, the master appeared from a doorway in the forecastle. He stood on the walkway above us, blew his whistle shrilly, and shouted down in a loud clear voice: 'Men! Your food is coming! The pork was bad, but there's stockfish cooking! More stores will be brought across tonight! And I have had word that when the King comes to Portsmouth tomorrow he is coming to inspect the Mary Rose! He is to dine on the Great Harry, then come here afterwards. All know the Mary Rose is his favourite ship! So come, lads, cry "God save King Harry!"'

The sailors looked at each other, then ragged cries of 'God save King Harry!' sounded along the deck. Some of the foreign sailors, not understanding, looked at each other in puzzlement. 'Hail the King, dogs!' someone shouted at them. The master stepped across the walkway to the aftercastle. I made my way to Leacon, who stood watching by the blinds. He gave me my robe; I was glad to put it on, feeling chilled in the night air after the heat of the galley.

'What's the matter, Matthew?' he asked. 'You look as though you'd seen a ghost.'

'For a moment I thought I was in Hell, down in that galley.'

'I hope they really do have some food.'

'They do.' I heard the master's voice from high up in the aftercastle, more cheers for the King.

'And you?' Leacon asked. 'Did you find Master West? Did you get the answers you sought?'

I sighed. 'Only some. The purser arrived and ordered me off. I got enough answers to worry me, though.'

He looked at me seriously. 'I have to get back to camp.'

'Of course. There is no more I can do here.'

Leacon leaned through the blind, signalling to the boatman below. He helped me clamber through. I found my footing on the rope ladder and we descended to the boat. The boatman pulled out again, over the moonlit sea. I looked back at the Mary Rose, then across to the Great Harry. 'Now we know what they were doing with that pig,' I said. 'Practising lifting the King aboard. He'd never get up a ladder.'

'No. The master did well to marshal the sailors then, that was a nasty mood developing on deck. By Mary, the people organizing the supplies—cheating merchants, corrupt officials.'

Like Richard Rich, I thought.

'Best the French come soon and make an end of this waiting,' Leacon said passionately. 'Get it over, one way or the other.'

I looked at his troubled face, but did not reply. When we reached the wharf again it was a relief to climb back on land. A group of ragged-looking men were being led up Oyster Street by constables armed with staves. One was protesting angrily. 'I've a job at the warehouse!'

'I've seen you begging by the churchyard. All beggars out of Portsmouth tonight!'

I looked at Leacon. 'Remember the beggars thrown out of York before the King arrived there?'

'I do.' He called over to the man in charge. 'Do you know what time the King arrives tomorrow?'

'At nine. He is riding down from Portchester, across Portsea Island and through the town gate. With Admiral Lord Lisle and all the Privy Council. He will be taken out to the ships, then spend the night at the royal tents.'

'Will the Queen be with them?' I asked.

'No women in the party, I'm told. Now sir, if you please I have to see to these rogues from the city.' Leacon took a long, deep breath, then reached out his hand. 'This is where we must part, Matthew.'

'Thank you, George. Thank you for everything.' There was a moment's silence, then I said, 'When this is over, come to London, stay with me a while.'

'I will. My good wishes to Jack.'

'Good luck, George.'

'And you.' I looked into his drawn face. He bowed, then turned and marched quickly away, leaving me with sadness in my heart. As I walked back to the inn, I forced my mind back to the information West had given me, what it meant and where it led.

BARAK LAY ON his bed, re-reading his letters from Tamasin. I pulled off my boots and sat on the side of my own bed, wondering how to tell him what I had decided.

'George Leacon sends his good wishes,' I told him. 'I have said farewell. The King will be in Portsmouth at nine tomorrow. He is going on the ships.'

'We must be gone before then,' Barak answered firmly.

'Yes, we must.'

'Did you get on the Mary Rose?'

'Yes.'

'What's it like?'

'Extraordinary. Beautiful and terrifying.'

'You saw West?'

'Yes.' I rubbed my neck. 'He was angry with me, he grabbed at me.'

'I told you it was dangerous,' he said impatiently.

'There were people near. In fact the purser interrupted us and ordered me away before I found out all I needed.'

'Did you get the name of that friend of his?'

'I asked him straight out if the other man was Warner, but he denied it. He gave me a name I have never heard of. I fear he was making it up. Jack, I am sure West knows Ellen is in the Bedlam.'

'If the story of the letter was true, why keep the man's name secret now?'

'Perhaps because they raped Ellen together.'

He lay back on the bed. 'More imagining.'

'If only that purser hadn't interrupted us—'

'Well, you did what you could. Now let's get back to London.'

'Tomorrow I am going first to Portchester Castle. I have to see the Queen. And Warner. She is not accompanying the King, it is an ideal opportunity. I am going to find out if Warner was at Rolfswood that day.'

He sat up. 'No,' he said quietly. 'You are going to let this go and come back to London.'

'What if it was Warner that betrayed me to Rich? An agent of Rich's in the Queen's household!'

'Even if that's true, you know everyone at court spies on each other. And if it's not true, you could lose Warner's friendship and patronage.'

'I owe the Queen. If one of her trusted advisers is in Richard Rich's pay—'

'You don't owe the Queen,' he answered with slow intensity. 'She owes you. She always has: you saved her life, remember? I wish you had never let her drag you back anywhere near the court.' His voice rose. 'Go to Portchester? It's mad. What if Rich is there?'

'All the privy councillors are going to the tents. But the Queen is staying behind, so her household will be too.'

'What would you say to Warner anyway?'

'Ask some hard questions.'

'This isn't courage, you know. It's wilful, blinkered stubbornness.'

'You don't have to come.'

He looked at me and I saw he was utterly weary, tired beyond belief. He said quietly, 'That's what you said about coming back here today. But I came, just like I've come almost everywhere on this damned journey. You know why? Because I was ashamed, ashamed from the moment we met those soldiers on the road, of how I'd dodged their fate. But I'm not so ashamed I'll follow you into that lion's den. So there, that's it. If you go to Portchester Castle, this time you go alone.'

'I didn't know you felt—'

'No. I've just been useful to have around. Like poor Leacon.'

'That's not fair,' I said, stung.

'Isn't it? You used him twice to get you to West, though he has a company of soldiers to lead. But there are only so many favours a man can call in from anyone.' He turned away and lay back down.

I sat in silence. Outside two drunks were walking down the streets, shouting, 'King Harry's coming! The King's coming, to see off the Frenchies!'

Chapter Forty

BARAK AND I SPOKE LITTLE during the remainder of the evening, only discussing the practicalities of the morrow's journey with uncomfortable, restrained politeness. Now I fully understood how reluctant he had been to support me in each successive stage of what he increasingly saw as my folly: he seemed to have given up arguing with me, which disturbed me more than any harsh words. We went early to bed, but it was long before I slept.

We had asked the innkeeper to be sure and wake us at seven, but the wretched man forgot and did not call till past eight. Thus one of the most crowded and terrible days of my life began with Barak and I struggling hastily into our clothes, pulling on our boots, and hurrying breakfastless to the stables. When we rode out into Oyster Street it was already lined with soldiers, helmets and halberds brightly polished, waiting for the King. A sumptuous canopied barge was drawn up at the wharf, a dozen men resting at the oars. Out at sea the ships stood waiting, great streamers in Tudor green and white, perhaps eighty feet long, fluttering gently from the topmasts.

To save time we avoided the main streets, riding up a lane between the town fields to the gate. It was another beautiful summer morning, Saturday, the 18th of July. All around soldiers waited outside their tents in helmets and jacks and, occasionally, brigandynes, captains on horseback facing the road in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets that reminded me of that first muster in London near a month ago.

'Is the King coming this way?' Barak asked.

'I would think he'll go down the High Street. But they all have to be ready.'

'Shit!' he breathed. 'Look there!' He pointed to a bearded man standing to attention beside a mounted captain, halberd held rigid, frowning with solemn importance.

I stared. 'Goodryke!' Barak averted his head from the whiffler who had tried so hard to conscript him, and we rode swiftly past.

WHERE THE town streets converged at the gate there was a milling throng. Many were on horseback, merchants by their look. They were trying to get through, but soldiers were pressing them back. 'I've to fetch five cartloads of wheat in today,' a red-faced man was shouting. 'I have to get out on the road to meet them.'

'It's to be kept clear for the King. No one enters or leaves till he has passed through. He'll be here in a few minutes.'

'Damn!' I breathed. 'Come, let's get to the back of the crowd.' I tried to turn Oddleg round, but people were packed too closely together. 'He's coming!' A captain shouted from the gate. 'Everyone stay where they are!'

So we sat waiting. Looking down the High Street, I saw behind the soldiers facing the road hundreds of townsfolk, some holding up English flags. Brightly coloured wall hangings and carpets hung from the first-floor windows of the houses, and there were even people standing on the roofs. I looked behind me at the crowd and saw, at the back, Edward Priddis and his father on horseback. They stared at me, Edward stonily and Sir Quintin balefully. I turned away and looked up at the walkway atop the town walls, crowded with soldiers. I patted Oddleg, who, like many of the horses in the tense crowd, was nervous.

A soldier on the walls cupped his hands and shouted down, 'He comes!' I pulled my cap forward to hide my face as the soldiers cheered. There was a sound of tramping feet and a company of pikemen marched in through the gate. A group of courtiers followed, in furs and satins, Rich among them. Then the unmistakable figure of the King rode slowly in, his gigantic horse draped in a canopy of cloth of gold. He wore a fur-trimmed scarlet robe set with jewels that glinted in the sun, a black cap with white feathers on his head. When I had seen him four years before he had been big, but now his body was vast, legs like tree trunks in golden hose sticking out from the horse's side. Beside him rode Lord Lisle, stern as when I had seen him at the Godshouse, and a large man whom I recognized from York as the Duke of Suffolk; his beard now was long, forked and white; he had become an old man.

Cheers rose from the streets, and a crash of cannon from the Camber sounded a welcome. I risked a glance at the King's face as he passed, fifteen feet from me. Then I stared, so different was it from four years before. The deep-set little eyes, beaky nose and small mouth were now surrounded by a great square of fat that seemed to press his features into the centre of his head. His beard was thin, and almost entirely grey. He was smiling, though, and began waving to the welcoming crowds, tiny eyes swivelling keenly over them. In that grotesque face I thought I read pain and weariness, and something more. Fear? I wondered whether even that man of titanic self-belief might think, as the French invasion force approached, what will happen now? Even, perhaps: What have I done?

Still waving, he rode away down the High Street, towards the barge that would take him to the Great Harry.

HALF AN HOUR passed before the King's entire retinue had entered the town and we were able to ride out. From the seafront more cannon resounded as the King arrived at the wharf. Beyond the gate the soldiers lining the road were now falling out of line, wiping sweat from their brows.

'Christ's blood, he's aged,' Barak said. 'How old is he now?'

I calculated. 'Fifty-four.'

'Is that all? Jesu. Imagine the Queen having to sleep with that.'

'I prefer not.'

'That I believe.' He ventured a smile and I smiled sadly back, glad the ice was broken.

We crossed the bridge to the mainland and rode quickly to the little town of Cosham. There one road continued north, past Hoyland and on to London, while another forked left to Portchester Castle. We halted. Barak said quietly, 'Let's ride on, get home.'

'No. I am still going to Portchester. An hour to ride there and back, an hour or two at the castle. I'll try and catch you up tomorrow.'

'I'm still not coming.'

'I understand. You think me mad, I know.' I tried to smile.

'I'll wait for you at the inn over there till three,' he said. 'But if you're not back by then I'll ride on.'

'Agreed.'

So I turned and rode west. I passed along the coastline for a couple of miles; slowly the high white Roman walls of Portchester Castle, set on a peninsula protruding into the head of Portsmouth Haven, became clearer. Twice I passed a company of soldiers heading in the opposite direction.

The castle, an almost perfect square of high stone walls surrounded by a moat, enclosed a site of several acres. In the centre of the walls was a large gatehouse, and at the western end an enormous square keep, immensely solid. A group of soldiers in half-armour, with swords and halberds, stood guard before the drawbridge in front of the gatehouse. I handed the letter I had written to Warner the previous night asking for an interview, to a young officer, a petty-captain I guessed. He looked at me interrogatively. 'I understand the Queen and her household have remained at Portchester,' I said.

'They're here.'

'I have been engaged on a piece of legal business for the Queen at Portsmouth. There has been a development and I need to speak with Master Warner.'

The captain stared. 'I'd have thought they'd be too busy there to bother with lawyer's quibbles.'

'This matter started before the present crisis. I think Master Warner will want to see me.'

He grunted disapproval, but beckoned a young soldier across, gave him the letter, and told him to find Warner. The soldier ran off to the drawbridge.

'Did you see his majesty enter Portsmouth?' the petty-captain asked.

'He arrived just before I left. He had a fine welcome.'

He jerked his head back at the castle behind him. 'We may have to defend this place from the French. They say there's thirty thousand of them.' He laughed bitterly, muttered 'Lawyer's quibbles,' again. We waited in silence, the hot sun beating down on us, till the young soldier ran back. 'He'll see the lawyer, sir,' he told the officer.

ONE OF THE soldiers took the horse, and the officer, with ill grace, led me across the drawbridge. We passed through the big gatehouse, guarded by more soldiers, which gave entrance to the castle and came out into a huge open space where there were yet more soldiers' tents. Men were drilling and practising with their bows on the cropped grass. Ahead of me was an enormous storehouse. The door was open and I saw it was near empty; most of the stores would have been taken to Portsmouth. A path ran straight across the enclosure to another gate on the opposite side, giving on to the harbour. Soldiers patrolled the walls and I saw the dark shapes of cannon; if the French managed to enter the harbour they might try to land here.

We turned left towards the tall inner keep; it was surrounded by a complex of smaller buildings, closed off by internal walls and protected by a continuation of the moat. The petty-captain had to explain his mission to the guards stationed there before he was allowed to lead me across the inner moat into a central yard. With the King away few people remained there. We passed through a high ornate door, then climbed a flight of steps to a great hall with a splendid hammerbeam roof. I was handed on to an official who led me down a narrow corridor into a small antechamber, telling me to wait. There were some cushioned chairs; I sat down wearily. It was quiet; a clock on the buffet ticked steadily. The sun streamed in through an arched window.

The door opened and Warner entered, my letter in his hand. He looked agitated. 'Matthew, what is this?' he asked. 'I hope it is urgent.'

I stood and bowed. 'It is. I need to speak with you, Robert.'

'Why are you still here?' he asked sharply. 'The Queen recommended you to leave. You know the King is here?'

'I saw him enter Portsmouth two hours ago.'

'Please tell me nothing more has happened at Hoyland Priory. The Queen was most concerned to learn of that woman's death.'

'A man has been arrested for Abigail Hobbey's murder, a local yeoman. I believe he is innocent.'

He waved a hand impatiently. 'The Queen cannot deal with that now.'

'And I have been warned to drop the Curteys case. By none other than Sir Richard Rich.'

I watched carefully for Warner's reaction, but he only looked surprised. 'What on earth has Rich to do with Hoyland?'

'I do not know. But I remember the day I came to Hampton Court to see the Queen, Rich was standing in a doorway in Clock Court when I left her. With Sir Thomas Seymour. They took the opportunity to bait me a little, but I thought the meeting was ill chance. Now I am not so sure.'

He shook his head. 'I can make nothing of this.'

I continued, 'I believe I mentioned I wished to take the opportunity to look into another matter down here.'

'You did.' He frowned. 'If there is a connection to the Hugh Curteys case, you should have told the Queen.'

'I have only recently discovered there may be a link. A man called Sir Quintin Priddis.'

'Matthew, the Queen cannot be troubled with this now,' he said sharply. 'The King needs her full support. You were told to leave—'

I said quickly, 'I have been investigating how a woman called Ellen Fettiplace came to be placed in the Bedlam nineteen years ago, despite there being no certificate of lunacy. Sir Quintin Priddis was involved. My trail led me to a town near the Sussex border, Rolfswood, where the body of her late father was recently discovered. It looks like murder. I have been talking to the man who was to marry her. He is now assistant purser on the Mary Rose. His name is Philip West.'

I watched Warner's face as I recited those names, but he still only looked puzzled and annoyed. 'Master West told me an extraordinary tale,' I continued. 'When he was young he was at court. He was favoured by the King and chosen to take a letter from Petworth to Hever Castle, the same summer of 1526 that Ellen's father disappeared and she went to the Bedlam. The letter was stolen by the man West was travelling with, a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon's service.'

'What is all this to do—'

I continued relentlessly. 'He believes the lawyer was a spy for Catherine of Aragon and took the letter to her. It may have given her early warning of the King's intention to divorce her. West told the King the letter was lost, not stolen. He told me the man who stole it was named Gregory Jackson, and that he is dead, but I have wondered whether West might have been lying.'

Warner stared at me; then he reddened and his face grew hard. 'What are you saying?' I did not answer. 'You know I was a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon's household then.' He said quietly, 'You think it might have been me.' He took a deep breath. 'Very well.'

He turned round and walked to the door. 'Wait here,' he said. Before I could move he had gone, closing the door. I heard him call out to a guard to watch it.

FOR HALF AN HOUR I waited and sweated. And I thought, Barak was right, I have become obsessed; if he had come here with me, I would have led us both into danger. When the door opened I jumped involuntarily, my heart in my mouth. Warner was there, two guards with halberds behind him. 'Come with me,' he said abruptly. I went out, the guards taking positions behind me.

Warner led me downstairs, our feet clattering on stone flags, and I thought with horror, this is a castle, it will have dungeons. But he stopped on the ground floor, took me along a corridor and then opened a door that led, to my surprise, into a small, secluded garden surrounded by trees. Vines hung from trellises and flowers grew in little banks by the walls. There, shaded by a trellis, the Queen sat, the spaniel Rig on her knee, two maids-in-waiting standing behind her. She wore a dress in her favourite crimson and a hood patterned with flowers, tiny diamonds sewn into the petals. She looked up at me and I saw her face was tight with strain, dark circles under the eyes. Her body was tense, rigid, her face angry. I bowed deeply.

'Matthew!' The Queen's tone was low, hurt. 'Master Warner tells me you have accused him of being in the pay of that scoundrel Richard Rich.'

I turned to Warner, who gazed back at me steadily. 'I made no accusation, your majesty. But I feared—'

'He has told me. It sounds scant reason to come here and accuse him. Now, of all times.'

'Your majesty, my concern was for the integrity of your household.'

The Queen closed her eyes. 'Oh, Matthew, Matthew,' she said. She looked at me again, steadily. 'Have you told anyone else this story?'

'Only Barak.'

'Well, it is true at least that this man West lied to you.' The Queen gestured wearily to her lawyer. 'Tell him, Robert.'

Warner said coldly, 'There was indeed a young lawyer in Catherine of Aragon's household named Gregory Jackson. He worked for me, in fact. But he died in 1525, the year before West lost this letter. From the sweating sickness. I remember, I went to his funeral. So the man West and his mother spoke of could not have been Jackson. But nor was it me. Queen Catherine of Aragon had her spies, certainly, who would try to ferret out whatever they could about the King's mistresses. But they were mostly servants in the King's household. And on my oath I was no spy, I was a lawyer then as I am now. And I have no connections with Richard Rich, no dealings with that man if I can avoid it. I thought it best to lay your—insinuation—directly before the Queen.'

'And I trust Robert.' The Queen's voice rose. 'Do you think me a fool, Matthew, not to be sure whom I can trust in my service, when I know what can happen to queens in this country?'

I looked between her and Warner, saw the anger in both their faces. I realized I had been wrong. 'I apologize most humbly, your majesty. And to you, Master Warner.'

The Queen turned to Warner. 'I wonder if there even was a letter.'

'I do not know, your majesty. I never heard anything, but I was not greatly in Catherine of Aragon's confidence. She knew or guessed by then that I was beginning to have reformist sympathies.'

I said, 'Either way, West lied about this man Jackson.'

He nodded stiffly in agreement. I looked back at the Queen. 'And there is still the question of Rich's involvement in the Curteys affair. There is a common link between the Curteys case and the Sussex matter—the feodary Sir Quintin Priddis, who was once a Sussex coroner. He is an old friend of Rich.'

The Queen considered. 'The death of poor Mistress Hobbey—you told Robert a man had been accused?'

'A local yeoman. He had been contesting attempts by Master Hobbey to enclose Hoyland village.'

'You believe him innocent?'

'Yes. There is no real evidence.'

'Is there any evidence against anyone else?'

I hesitated. 'No.'

'Then he will stand trial. The truth will be investigated there.'

'He is in prison now. I have offered to take up the villagers' case at the Court of Requests.'

'You have been busy,' Warner said sarcastically.

The Queen said, 'And the man found dead at Rolfswood, the father of your—friend—in Bedlam. What will happen there?'

'There will be an inquest. I do not know when.'

The Queen looked at me. 'Then that will be the time to ferret out the truth. As for Hugh Curteys, whatever corruption there may have been in the administration of his lands, if he does not wish to pursue the case, there is nothing to be done. Matthew, I know you never like to let a matter rest once you have taken it up, but sometimes in this life you must. These matters will have to await due process. And you should not be here. The French are coming, there could be mortal danger.' She raised a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose.

'Are you all right, your majesty?' I asked.

'Tired, that is all. The King slept badly last night and called me to talk with him. Often now he cannot sleep from the pain from his leg.'

'You do not know how difficult life is for the Queen just now,' Warner said angrily. 'Why do you think the King has left her here today? I will tell you,' he went on. 'Because if, which God forbid, he should be killed or captured in these next few days, the Queen will be Regent for Prince Edward as she was when the King went to France last year, and she will have to deal with all of them. Gardiner, Norfolk, the Seymours, Cranmer. And Rich.' He moved a step closer to his mistress, protectively. 'These last two years she has kept her patronage of you as unobtrusive as she can, lest the King remember your past encounter and be annoyed. And now you stay in Hampshire against her wishes, you come swaggering in here, making ridiculous accusations against me—'

The Queen looked up and now she was smiling faintly. She put her hand on Warner's sleeve. 'Come, Robert. Swaggering is something Matthew does not do. Leave us to talk, just for a few moments, then take Matthew out and he can make haste straight back to London.'

Warner bowed deeply to the Queen, then walked stiffly away without another look at me. The Queen nodded to the maids-in-waiting and they stepped to the shade of the doorway. She looked at me, the half-smile still on her face.

'I know you meant well, Matthew. But never forget that, as the Gospels tell us, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.'

'I am sorry. Sorry that I accused Master Warner, and sorrier that you have cause to be angry with me.'

She looked at me intently. 'Do you see that I have cause? After you disobeyed me?'

'Yes. Yes, I do.'

She nodded in acknowledgement, then looked down at her dog. 'Do you remember that day at Hampton Court?' she said in a lighter tone. 'The Lady Elizabeth was with us. She liked your answers to her questions, she told me later. I think you made a friend there. She does not like everyone, I can tell you.'

'I have remembered it too, these last weeks. You told me she was reading Roger Ascham's Toxophilus. It is a great favourite of Hugh Curteys' too. He lent it to me. I confess I found it a little—self-satisfied.'

'I have met Master Ascham. He—he is one who does swagger.' She laughed. 'But he is a learned man. The Lady Elizabeth has expressed a wish to correspond with him. She is such a remarkable child. Master Grindal is teaching her well, he is one of those who believes a woman may learn anything as well as a man. That is good. I often wish I had had a better education.' She smiled again, and a little merriment came to her eyes. 'Though I wish Elizabeth would not swear like a boy. I tell her it is not ladylike.' The Queen looked round the little garden; sunlight came through the trees, making patterns on the ground as the breeze shifted the branches. Birds sang softly. 'This is a peaceful little place,' she said wistfully. 'Tell me, what is Hugh Curteys like?'

'He is somehow—unreadable. But he still mourns his sister.'

Her face clouded again. 'Many in England may be in mourning before long. I wish the King had never—' she cut herself short, biting her lip, then reached out and touched my hand. 'I am sorry I was vexed, Matthew. I am tired.'

'Should I leave you, your majesty?'

'Yes. I may go to my chamber and rest. But I pray God we may meet again, safe, in London.'

I bowed and stepped to the door. I was full of gratitude for her forgiveness, and deeply sorry now for my accusations against Warner. I might have gained a friend in little Lady Elizabeth, but I had lost one, too. Then I frowned. Something was nagging at my mind. Something the Queen had said about Elizabeth. The maids-in-waiting moved aside to let me pass, dresses rustling. Inside, Warner waited, his manner still cold and hostile.

'Robert,' I said, 'I apologize again—'

'Come, you should leave, now.'

We went back up the stairs I had descended in such fear. 'Master Warner,' I said when we reached the top. 'There is one last question I would ask, if you will?'

'Well?' he asked roughly.

'Something you said to me at Hampton Court. You said the Queen was like Catherine of Aragon, utterly loyal to her servants.'

'Do not worry,' he said contemptuously, 'the Queen will stay loyal to you.'

'I did not mean that. It was something else you said, that Catherine of Aragon had her faults. What did you mean by that?'

'It is simple enough. She was another like you, sir, who would not let go when sense and even decency indicated she ought. When the King first said he wished to divorce her, the Pope sent her a message. That I did know of, as her lawyer. The Pope, to whom Catherine of Aragon's ultimate loyalty lay as a Catholic, suggested that in order to resolve the problems that were beginning to tear England apart, she should retire to a nunnery, which in canon law would allow the King to marry again without a divorce.'

'That would have been a neat answer.'

'It would have been the best answer. She was past childbearing age; the King would not bed with her anyway. She could have kept her status and honours, lived an easy life. And her daughter Mary that she loved would have kept her place in the succession rather than being threatened, as she was later, with execution. So much blood and trouble would have been spared. And the irony is Catherine of Aragon's obstinacy meant that England split from Rome; the last thing she wanted.'

'Of course. I see.'

Warner smiled tightly. 'But she believed God desired her to stay married to the King. And as often happens, God's will and her own chimed nicely. So there you are, that is where obstinacy may lead. Fortunately, our present Queen has a strong sense of realism. Stronger than some men, for all that she is a weak woman.'

He turned on his heel, and led me away. And with his last words it came to me, like a click in the brain. I understood now what had happened at Hoyland, what the secret was that everyone had known and concealed. Warner turned and looked at me in surprise as I released a sound that started as a sigh but ended as a groan.

AN HOUR LATER Barak and I were riding north along the London road. When I arrived at the inn I had been moved by the relief on his face. I told him Warner was innocent and that I had received a deserved rebuke from the Queen.

'Well,' he said, 'I did warn you.'

'Yes. You did.'

As we rode on I was silent; Barak probably thought I was in a chastened mood, but I was thinking hard, turning everything over since that flash of revelation as I left the Queen, afraid I might be building another castle in the air. But this time everything fitted tightly. And it would be easy to find out, very easy.

I said quietly, 'I want to call in at Hoyland on the way. Just briefly.'

For a second I thought he would fall from his saddle. 'Hoyland? Have you gone stark mad? What sort of welcome do you think you'll get?'

'I know now what it was that the Hobbeys were keeping quiet. What caused poor Michael Calfhill such distress when he came, and why Feaveryear left.'

'Jesus Christ, another theory.'

'It is easy to test. It should only take half an hour. And if I am wrong no harm will be done, and we can be on our way.'

'Do you think you know who killed Abigail?' he asked sharply.

'I am not sure yet. But if I am right, the killer came from within the household not the village.' I gave him a pleading look. 'Maybe I am wrong, but if I am right Ettis may be proved innocent. Half an hour. But if you want, ride on and find a bed in Petersfield.'

He looked down the dusty, tree-shaded road, then at me, and to my relief he shook his head and laughed. 'I give up,' he said. 'I'll come. After all, it's only the Hobbeys we have to face this time.'

Chapter Forty-one

I KNEW THAT if we rode up to the front door of Hoyland Priory, Fulstowe might see us and order us off. Accordingly we turned onto the path along the edge of the hunting park that led to the rear gate. Overhanging branches brushed us as we rode quietly along. I remembered the day of the hunt, the great stag turning at bay. And the day we had ridden into Hugh's woodland and that arrow had plunged into the tree beside us.

We dismounted beside the gate. 'Let's tie the horses to a tree,' I said.

'I hope it's unlocked.'

'It's flimsy. If need be we can smash it open.'

'Breaking and entering?' Barak looked at me seriously. 'That's not like you.'

But it was unlocked, and we stepped quietly through into the familiar grounds. Ahead was the lawn dotted with its trees; to our left the kennels and other outhouses. Barak looked down to the little sheds where he and Dyrick's clerk had lodged. He suddenly asked, 'Feaveryear hasn't been harmed, has he?'

'No, he was sent packing back to London because he discovered something.'

'In God's name, what?'

'I want you to see for yourself.'

I looked at the great hall, the sun glinting on the windows. No one was about; it was very quiet. We started a little as a pair of wood pigeons flapped noisily from one tree to another. It was hot, the sun almost directly above. My coif chafed against my brow and I wiped away sweat. I realized I was hungry; it was well past lunchtime. I looked at the old nuns' cemetery, the practice butts, remembered Hobbey saying he wondered if he might be under a curse for taking over the old convent.

One of the servants, a young man from the village, came out of the buttery. He stared at us in astonishment, as though we were ghosts. All the servants would know how I had upset the family at the inquest. I walked across, smiling. 'Good afternoon, fellow. Do you know if Master Hobbey is at home?'

'I—I don't know, sir. He is going to the village today, with Master Fulstowe and Master Dyrick.'

'Dyrick is still here?'

'Yes, sir. I don't know if they've gone out yet. You have come back?'

'Just briefly. Something I need to speak with Master Hobbey about. I will go round to the house.' We walked away, leaving him gazing after us.

'I wonder what they're up to in the village,' Barak said.

'Trying to bully them over the woodlands, probably.'

We went down the side of the great hall and round to the front of the house. In Abigail's garden the flowers were dying unwatered in the heat. I said, 'Remember when that greyhound killed Abigail's dog? Remember her saying I was a fool who did not see what was in front of me? If I had, then, she might not have died. But they were so clever, all of them. Come,' I said savagely, 'let's get this over.'

We walked round to the front porch. Hugh was sitting on the steps, oiling his bow. He wore a grey smock and a broad-brimmed hat to shade his face. When he saw us he jumped to his feet. He looked shocked.

'Good afternoon, Hugh,' I said quietly.

'What do you want?' His voice trembled. 'You are not welcome here.'

'I need to talk to Master Hobbey. Do you know where he is?'

'I think he's gone to the village.'

'I will go in and see.'

'Fulstowe will throw you out.'

I met Hugh's gaze, this time letting my eyes rove openly over his long, tanned face, staring straight at the smallpox scars. He looked away. 'Come, Jack,' I said. We walked past Hugh, up the steps.

The great hall, too, was silent and empty. The saints in the old west window at the far end still raised their hands to heaven. The walls remained blank; I wondered where the tapestries were. Then a door at the upper end of the hall opened, and David came in, dressed in mourning black. Like Hugh and the servant before him, he stared at us wonderingly. Then he walked forward, his solid body settling into an aggressive posture.

'You!' he shouted angrily. 'What are you doing here?'

'There is something I need to see your father about,' I told him.

'He's not here!' David's voice rose to a shout. 'He's gone to the village with Fulstowe, to sort out those serfs.'

'Then we will wait till he returns.'

'What's this about?'

'Something important.' I looked into the boy's wide, angry blue eyes. 'Something I have discovered about the family.' David's full lips worked, and his expression turned from truculence to fear.

'Go away! I am in charge in my father's absence. I order you to leave!' he shouted. 'I order you out of this house!' He was breathing heavily, almost panting.

'Very well, David,' I said quietly. 'We will go. For now.' I turned and walked away to the door. Barak followed, casting glances over his shoulder to where David stood staring. Then the boy turned and walked rapidly away. A door slammed.

We stepped back into the sunlight. In the distance I saw Hugh standing, shooting arrows at the butts. Barak said, 'David looked like he'd been found out in something.'

'He has, and realized it. He is not quite as stupid as he seems.'

'He looked like he might have another fit.'

'Poor creature,' I said sorrowfully. 'There is every reason to pity David Hobbey. More than any of them.'

'All right,' Barak said in a sharp voice. 'Enough riddles. Tell me what's going on.'

'I said I wanted you to see. Come, walk with me.'

I led the way round the side of the house. Here we had a clear view of Hugh. He stood with feet planted firmly on the lawn. He had a bagful of arrows at his belt and was shooting them, one after another, at the target. Several were stuck there already. Hugh reached down, fitted another arrow to his bow, bent back, rose up and shot. The arrow hit the centre of the target.

'By God,' Barak said. 'He gets better and better.'

I laughed then, loudly and bitterly. Barak looked at me in surprise.

'There is what none of us saw,' I said, 'except Feaveryear, who realized and ran to Dyrick. I think Dyrick did not know until Hobbey told him after Lamkin died. I remember he looked perturbed after that. He had probably demanded Hobbey tell him what it was Abigail had said I could not see.'

'Know what?' Barak's voice was angry now. 'All I see is Hugh Curteys shooting on the lawn. We saw that every day for a week.'

I said quietly, 'That is not Hugh Curteys.'

Now Barak looked alarmed for my sanity. His voice rose. 'Then who the hell is it?'

'Hugh Curteys died six years ago. That is Emma, his sister.'

'What—'

'They both had smallpox. But I believe it was Hugh that died, not Emma. We know Hobbey was in financial difficulties. He could hold off his creditors by making a bond to pay them, over a period of years, and creaming off the money from the Curteys children's woodlands. I think that is why he took the wardship.'

'But that's a boy—'

'Let me continue.' I went on, in tones of quiet intensity, 'But then Hugh died. Remember how wardship works: a boy has to be twenty-one to sue out his livery and gain possession of his lands, but a girl can inherit at fourteen. Emma would have inherited Hugh's share of the lands automatically. Hobbey no doubt had thought he would have control at least for nine years, but now he faced losing them in one. Not long enough to pay off his debts. So I think they substituted Emma for Hugh.'

'They couldn't—'

'They could. It helped that the children were so close in age and looked alike, though no one who knew them both would have been deceived. So they dismissed Michael Calfhill at once and left London quickly.'

'But Michael said he saw Emma buried.'

'It was Hugh in that coffin.'

'Jesus.'

'Michael never did anything wrong with Hugh. And when he came to visit last spring he recognized Emma.'

Barak leaned forward, watching the figure on the lawn intently as another arrow was loosed at the target. Like the last, it hit dead centre. 'You're wrong, that's not a girl. And what on earth would be in it for her?'

'Not marrying David, I would guess. Of course, she might have learned from Michael that David's falling sickness meant she could go to the Court of Wards and say a marriage to him would be disparagement. But, with Michael gone and her fate in the hands of the Hobbeys, it would be a hard thing for a thirteen-year-old girl to do on her own. And the impersonation would have given her some power over the Hobbeys. She held their fate in her hands. I would guess Emma agreed to the substitution because it meant there could never be a marriage. That was probably all she thought of then,' I added sadly. 'But once it was done they were all trapped.'

Barak shaded his eyes with his hand, looked again at Hugh. 'That is no girl. It can't be.'

'Keep your voice down. No, you wouldn't think so. But a girl may learn skill at the bow, may be educated as well as a man. I think that is why the time I met Lady Elizabeth kept coming back into my mind. She too is a good archer. And if a girl has learned to walk as a boy, dress as a boy, behave as a boy and shoot arrows like a boy, then among strangers the deception may be kept up for years. If she is tall, that helps too.'

'But her breasts? And the stubble—Hugh gets shaved regularly.'

'Breasts can be flattened with padding. And though they have taken trouble to tell us Hugh is shaved regularly I have never seen any stubble on his face. Have you?'

'But he had shaving cuts—'

'He had cuts on his face. Or rather, hers. Those are easy enough to make.'

'No Adam's apple—'

'Some boys have a prominent one, like Feaveryear. Others have one that is barely noticeable. And her scars prevented anyone from looking too closely at her neck.'

Barak stared harder. 'But to keep it up for years—'

'Yes. It must have been a terrible strain on them all, one that unbalanced Abigail and David. They told Fulstowe, of course—his help was essential. And that gave him a hold over the family. The Hobbeys must soon have realized they were caught, trapped for ever. Because once it started there was no going back. If they were found out they could have ended in prison.'

'But why would Emma keep up the pretence now? Jesu, he—or she—wants to go and be a soldier!'

I said angrily, 'Perhaps by now she scarcely knows who or what she is.'

'Listen. I know it fits, but you'd better be sure—'

I said sadly, 'I looked at Hugh properly for the first time, on the steps when we arrived. Full in his scarred face. Then I saw he could easily be a girl.'

Barak turned to me. 'Did Hugh—Emma—kill Abigail?'

He spoke too loudly. The slim, lithe figure at the butts had just risen to fire another arrow. He—or rather she—lowered the bow and turned to face us. We stood quite still for a moment, all three of us, like some strange tableau. Then, in seconds, the person we had known as Hugh had strung an arrow to the bow, raised it and taken aim at my chest. I knew there was nothing Barak or I could do; before we could run a few paces Emma Curteys could loose the arrow, string another, and shoot us both dead.

I raised my arms, as though I could ward off that steel-tipped shaft. 'Don't!' I shouted. 'You will gain nothing!'

I could not see her face properly at that distance; it was shaded by the hat, which I realized now was one of the many ruses, like putting her hand to her scars, that Emma had developed over the years to prevent people looking her fully in the face. I saw the bow move slightly and stepped back with a cry, but then I realized it was trembling, shaking slightly from side to side in her hand though she still aimed at me.

'Run!' Barak cried.

I seized his arm. 'No! Don't do anything sudden!' I called out to Emma. 'I'm your friend!' I called steadily. 'Haven't you realized that? I will help you!'

Still she stood, the bow trembling gently. The whole thing can only have lasted ten seconds but it seemed like an age. Then I saw a figure on the edge of my vision, a dark solid shape running towards the archer.

'Hugh!' David shouted out—he still called her Hugh—'stop! It can't help you! They know, it's over! Put the bow down!'

Emma turned, pointing the bow at David as he ran towards her. The arrow hit him in the side, its force sending him staggering. He toppled over onto the lawn, moaned once, then was silent. Then, no doubt drawn by the shouting, Fulstowe appeared in the doorway. David had lied, he was in there after all. He stepped out. A gaggle of servants followed as Fulstowe began walking towards David. Emma reached back, flicked another arrow on to her bow, and aimed at the steward. Fulstowe stopped dead in his tracks. One of the women servants screamed. I thought Emma would shoot Fulstowe down but instead she retreated backwards, step by step, to the gate, still keeping him covered. Only once did she glance across to where David lay on the lawn, quite still now. All this time she had not uttered a single word.

She backed out of the gateway, then turned and ran. Fulstowe and some of the other servants raced over to where David lay. Someone screamed, 'Murder!'

Chapter Forty-two

DAVID, THOUGH, was not dead. From where he lay on the grass I heard a faint, desperate moan. Fulstowe turned from the gate and ran across to him, Barak and I following. Blood was pouring from the wound in David's side, from which the arrow shaft protruded obscenely.

'Help me,' he whimpered.

'Still, lad,' Barak said gently.

The steward shouted to the servants who had gathered at the side of the lawn. 'Quick! Someone ride to fetch the Cosham barber-surgeon! And tear up some sheets!'

I shouted, 'My horse is ready saddled, tied up outside the back gate. Take it!'

Fulstowe looked wildly at me. 'What the hell happened? Why are you here?'

'Hugh shot David. I think he might have killed us had David not intervened.'

'What?'

'Leave me go!' I heard a shrill, desperate voice from the doorway. Hobbey stood there, Dyrick holding his arm. He threw Dyrick off, ran across to David and knelt beside him. He began tenderly stroking his dark head, tears streaming down his cheeks. The boy lifted a hand with difficulty and his father clutched it.

I felt a hand seize my own arm, nails digging into it, and looked up into Dyrick's furious face. 'God's nails,' he snarled. 'What have you done?'

'Found out the truth,' I answered quietly. 'That Emma Curteys has been impersonating her dead brother. It's all over now, Dyrick.'

'I didn't know!' he blustered. 'All these years, they made a fool of me too. I knew nothing until—'

'Until Lamkin died, and you demanded Hobbey tell you what it was Abigail said I could not see that was in front of me. Then Feaveryear guessed.'

An angry spasm twisted Dyrick's sharp features. 'The stupid lad formed a passion for Hugh, that sent him wailing and praying to God for forgiveness. Then he realized the truth, he said he kept looking at Hugh closely and one day he understood.'

'You should have withdrawn from acting for Hobbey then.' I looked at him with scorn. 'But you couldn't bear to be made to look a fool, could you? Couldn't bear the revelation of how you had been gulled?'

'You sanctimonious bent churl!' Dyrick launched himself at me, pummelling at me with hard bony fists, even as Hobbey wept over his son. Then he was sent sprawling down on the lawn. Barak stood over him.

'You preening shit,' he said. 'You're finished. Now shut your weasel mouth or I'll give you the beating I've dreamed of for weeks!'

Dyrick lay on his back, red and gasping, his robe spread out beneath him. I looked to where Hobbey still knelt over David; he had not even turned round. 'My poor son,' he said gently. 'My poor son.'

THE BARBER-SURGEON arrived shortly after. Helped by Fulstowe he took David inside, Hobbey and the servants following. Dyrick went with them. Barak and I stayed in the great hall. I asked a servant to tell Dyrick I wanted to talk to him as soon as possible. We sat down at the table, silent, shocked, waiting.

'Where do you think Emma will go?' Barak asked.

'My guess is Portsmouth, to try and enlist. I think, God help me, she may seek to end all this in a blaze of glory.'

'Did she kill Abigail?'

I shook my head. 'I think today was the first time she lost control. No, that was someone else.'

He said, 'If I hadn't raised my voice—'

We looked up at the sound of footsteps. Fulstowe approached us, pure hatred in his eyes. 'Master Hobbey would speak with you.'

I nodded assent. 'Come, Barak.' I wanted a witness to this.

We followed the steward to Hobbey's study. Hobbey sat slumped at his desk, his thin face grey, staring unseeingly at the hourglass. Dyrick sat in a chair next to him. Fulstowe stood by the window, watching, as Dyrick said to me, 'Master Hobbey wishes to talk to you. Know it is against my advice—'

'Your advice,' Hobbey said quietly. 'Where has that brought me? Since that first day you told me the children's wardship was worth paying for.' He looked at me; his eyes were sunk deep in his skull. 'David will live. The barber-surgeon has taken the arrow out. But he thinks David's spine is injured. He cannot move his legs properly. We must get a physician.' His voice broke for a moment. 'My poor boy, what a hard path I gave him to tread in this world. Harder than he could bear.' He looked at me. 'You are not my nemesis, Master Shardlake. I have been my own. I caused the destruction of my family.' He closed his eyes. 'Vincent says you know what we did.'

'Yes,' I answered gently. 'I realized only this morning.'

'We have told everyone there was an accident at the butts, that Hugh was frightened by what happened and has run away. I think they believed us.' He paused. 'Unless you tell them something different.'

I said, 'It was David who shot at Barak and me that day, wasn't it? I think he was even following me the night I arrived.'

He answered quietly, 'I think so.'

'And who killed his mother?'

Hobbey bowed his head. Dyrick raised a hand. 'Nicholas—'

Hobbey looked up again. 'I feared so from the start. David—he had come to see everyone as his enemy; except me, and Emma, whom he—whom he loved. He said to me more than once that if anyone tried to expose us he would shoot them dead.' He added sombrely, 'I think perhaps he did mean to shoot you in the woods that day, but missed. He was never as good a shot as Emma.'

'Jesu,' Barak said.

'That was why I let Fulstowe and Vincent persuade me to try and get Ettis convicted. David's mind—' He shook his head. 'But now it is all over.' He looked at the hourglass with a sad, broken smile. 'The sand has run out, as I have feared it would for so long.'

'Did you make Emma assume her brother's identity because the law allows a girl to come into her lands much sooner than a boy?'

'Six years ago, when I bought this house, I was a prosperous merchant, a risen man.' He spoke the words bitterly. 'But then the French and Spanish put their embargo on English trade. I invested too much at the wrong time, and faced ruin. When Hugh and Emma's parents died, I saw the opportunity to make profit from Hugh's woods. Eighty pounds a year's profits for eight years, that was what I needed to repay the bond with my creditors. Getting Hugh and Emma's wardship was the only way out I could see. I was advised by friends to see Vincent.'

I turned to Dyrick. 'So you were part of the plan to steal the children's assets from the start.'

'Many people do it,' Dyrick said impatiently. 'And it kept Master Hobbey and his family from penury. And gave the children, who had nobody else, a home.'

'And David a potential wife. Whether Emma wanted him or not.'

Hobbey said, 'We hoped Emma would come to love David in time. Abigail said she would have made a steady, sober wife for him, which he needed. She was right.'

'What of her needs?' I asked in sudden anger. 'That orphaned child?'

'Listen,' Dyrick said. 'Never mind the moralizing, much as you love it. The point is, what is going to happen now?'

Hobbey said, 'Yes. To Emma? And David?'

'First I need to know it all,' I answered. 'Everything. What happened, who was involved. So, Dyrick got you the children's wardship and you tried to cajole Emma into marrying David. I imagine Hugh and Michael Calfhill both counselled her to resist.'

'Yes, they did.'

'But then something went badly wrong, didn't it? Hugh died. His lands passed to Emma. Who, unless she married David, would inherit at fourteen, not twenty-one.'

Hobbey said, 'We were in a panic, we thought we would go bankrupt. After Hugh died we begged and pleaded with Emma to marry David, but she refused utterly. She said she would go to the Court of Wards and say David was not a suitable husband because of his falling sickness. Though we knew she could hardly do that alone.' Hobbey bowed his head. 'And then—then my wife had the idea of substituting Emma for Hugh.'

'And Emma agreed?'

'She agreed readily, perhaps too readily. I still do not understand why she disliked my son so much, but—she did. In fact it was David that Abigail and I needed to persuade to accept our plans.'

'And then you got rid of Michael Calfhill and moved down here. Where no one had ever seen the children.'

'Yes. It was only then that we realized that we were all trapped. Me, David, Abigail and Emma. If the truth came out we could have been in deep trouble. The only other who knew was Fulstowe.' Hobbey looked at his steward. 'He was always so good at organizing things, anticipating difficulties. And Emma—she retreated into herself, into books and archery.'

'Which she had already practised with Michael.'

'Yes. And the other tutors. We never let one stay too long. It was easy enough to deceive them at first, but it grew harder as Emma grew older. We—we became frightened of her. She never let us know what was happening in her mind. She impersonated her brother so well—sometimes I found myself thinking of her as Hugh for days at a time, somehow it eased my mind. Abigail never did—if I accidentally referred to Emma as Hugh in her presence she would shout and rail at me. But she was utterly terrified of exposure. And at the time you came there were only three years left till Emma could go to court as Hugh and claim her lands. I do not know what would have happened then.' Nor did I, I thought. Emma had truly made herself unreachable.

Hobbey continued: 'As the years passed the deception was a toll on us all. But especially on Abigail. She was the one who had to counsel Emma how to deal with the monthly woman's curse, cut and sew padding for her breasts. That only seemed to make Emma hate her, and—and somehow we all came to blame Abigail because it had been her idea. Especially David. It was not fair, it had all been done to pay my debts. But even I came to blame her. My poor wife.'

'And then Michael Calfhill returned.'

Hobbey flinched. 'He realized at once that Hugh was really Emma. The moles on her face were enough. He threatened to expose us. But Emma did not want him to.' He looked at Dyrick. 'And you had found out something about Michael, hadn't you, when he was encouraging Emma to refuse to marry David.'

'You suspected it yourself,' Dyrick answered sharply. 'You asked me to see what I could find.'

Hobbey dropped his gaze. He said, 'Someone in London told me Michael was said to have had an—improper—relationship with another student at Cambridge. And Vincent discovered there had been others.'

'So after he came this year you threatened him with exposure?'

'Yes. I got Vincent to visit him. God forgive me.'

'Sodomy is a hanging offence,' Dyrick snapped. 'I told Calfhill I would tell the world what he was if he lodged a complaint at Wards. How was I to know he would kill himself?'

'So it was suicide, after all,' I said.

'What the hell else did you think it was?' Dyrick burst out.

'You went and threatened him.' I looked at Dyrick with disgust. 'You drove that young man, who had only ever sought to help both children, to his grave.'

'I did not know he was that weak,' Dyrick said defiantly.

'You dirty shit,' Barak said.

I stared at Dyrick. 'Someone attacked me in London and warned me off the case. Was that you as well?'

Dyrick and Hobbey stared at each other, then at me. Dyrick said, 'That was nothing to do with us.'

I frowned, thinking. 'So Michael screwed up the courage to make the complaint at the Court of Wards. But then he became terrified of what you would say and killed himself. How he must have struggled with his conscience. Perhaps he hoped his mother would take up the case, maybe bring it to the Queen, who had been kind to him.'

'Conscience,' Hobbey said with infinite sadness. 'I had one once. Ambition killed it. And afterwards—you know in your heart the wrong you have done, but—you stifle it. You have to. You continue to act your part. But Michael's death has haunted me.' Tears began coursing down his thin grey cheeks. 'And poor Abigail. Oh, if only we could have seen where this imposture would lead. And it destroyed my poor son's mind.' He put his head in his hands and began weeping uncontrollably. Dyrick stirred restlessly. Fulstowe gave his employer a look of contempt.

After a minute, Hobbey wiped his face then looked at me wearily. 'What will you do now, sir, about David? Will you reveal he killed his mother?'

'Shouldn't he?' Barak asked brutally.

'My son's mind was disturbed,' Hobbey said desperately. 'It was my fault.' He looked at me, his face suddenly animated. 'If I could, I would sell Hoyland, leave the villagers alone, and go somewhere where I could spend the rest of my life looking after my son, trying—trying to heal him. Though I think he would not be sorry to die now.'

'Nicholas,' Dyrick said, 'Hoyland has been your life—'

'That is over, Vincent.' Hobbey looked at his servant. 'And you, Fulstowe, that we took into our confidence, you used that to build up power over this family. You used us, you felt nothing for any of us. I have known that for a long time. You can go, now. At once.'

Fulstowe looked at him in disbelief. 'You can't dismiss me. Listen, were it not for me—'

'I can,' Hobbey cut in, a touch of the old authority in his voice. 'Get out, now.'

Fulstowe turned to Dyrick. But his confederate in the plan to destroy the village only jerked his head sharply at the door, saying, 'Tell no one about Emma, ever. You are as implicated as your master.'

'After everything I have done for you—' Fulstowe looked at Hobbey and Dyrick again, then walked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

I looked at Dyrick. 'Ettis has to be freed,' I said. 'You and Fulstowe would have let him die to further your schemes.'

'Don't be stupid,' Dyrick snapped back. 'He would never have been found guilty. But with him in prison the villagers would have been more reasonable.'

'Master Shardlake,' Hobbey said, 'I want no charges brought against Emma. If only she could be brought back—'

'I fear she may have gone to Portsmouth to enlist. She may look for my friend George Leacon's company. They saw what a good archer she is.'

'Could you—might you find her?'

I sat back, considering. David and Emma. Both their fates were in my hands now.

Barak said, 'She nearly killed us. Let them both be exposed for what they did.'

I looked at Hobbey. 'I have two more questions. First, am I right that Sir Quintin Priddis knew Hugh was really Emma?'

'Nicholas,' Dyrick expostulated, 'don't answer. We may need Priddis—'

Hobbey ignored him. 'Yes. He knew.'

'From the beginning?'

'No, but he visited this house once, to bargain for his share when I began cutting Emma's woodlands. Sir Quintin is very observant, looking at her he realized the deception. The only one that ever has, save you and Feaveryear. He agreed to keep quiet in return for a larger cut.'

'And his son?'

'I think not. Sir Quintin is a man who even now likes his power, and secrets are power. Other people's, that is; your own are a curse.'

I took a deep breath, then asked, 'And Sir Richard Rich? What is his involvement in all this?'

A look of genuine puzzlement crossed Hobbey's face. 'Rich? The royal counsellor? I have never met him. I saw him for the first time when he came up to you at the Guildhall.'

'Are you sure, Master Hobbey?'

He spread his hands. 'Why would I keep anything back now?'

Dyrick too was staring at me in surprise. I realized neither of them had any idea what I was talking about. But then why had Rich been so agitated in Portsmouth? Why had he, as I increasingly believed, set those corner boys on me in London and killed the clerk Mylling? I thought hard, and then I understood. Again I had jumped to a wrong conclusion.

AND NOW I had to decide what to do. I looked at Hobbey's desperate face, Barak's angry one, then at Dyrick, who had begun to look uneasy and frightened. If it became known he had helped to conceal Emma's true identity there would be serious professional consequences for him. I could never trust Dyrick, but for now he was in my power. I said, 'This is what I am prepared to do. If Ettis is freed I will say nothing about David killing his mother.'

Barak sat up. 'You can't! He murdered her! What else might he do? And you can believe they're not involved with Rich—'

'They're not. They never were. I think I see what happened now. But tell me, Jack, do you think David was of sound mind when he killed Abigail? Do you think his being put on trial and either certified as mad or hanged will do anyone any good? Who will it benefit?'

'He may shoot someone else.'

'That he never will,' Hobbey said. 'He may never even walk properly again. And I told you, from now on I will watch after him day and night—'

I raised a hand. 'I have three conditions, Master Hobbey.'

'Anything—'

'First, you will ensure—I care not how—that Ettis is released. If he has to stand trial for murder in due course, very well, so long as I am there to ensure that justice takes its course and he is found innocent. And I want to let him know now, in confidence, that that will be the outcome.'

Hobbey looked at Dyrick. 'We can arrange that, Vincent, I am sure. Sir Luke—'

Dyrick said, 'What are your other conditions?'

'The second, Master Hobbey, is that you do as you said, sell Hoyland—having confirmed the villagers' title to the woodland—and take David to a place where you can keep him safe and watched.'

'Yes,' he answered at once. 'Yes.'

Barak looked at me and shook his head. And though I doubted David would be a danger to anyone again, I knew I was taking a risk. But I believed Hobbey would do as he promised.

'My last condition concerns Emma. I will ride back to Portsmouth, and if I find her there and trying to join the army I will get her out.'

'No—' Barak started.

'He'd need to expose her as a girl,' Dyrick said. 'Nicholas, if he does that we could be done for after all. If she gets a lift on a supply cart she could be there already.'

'If she has joined my friend's company, or another, I do not need to tell them the whole story. Merely that a patriotic girl is impersonating a boy.'

'I agree,' Hobbey said. 'I agree to everything.'

'But I will not bring Emma back here. I will take her to London. And you, Master Hobbey, will sell Hugh's wardship to me, as wardships are constantly bought and sold. Though, of course, the transaction will only be a paper one, I will give you no money. Master Dyrick here will organize it.'

Even now, after all the death and ruin, Dyrick took the chance to score a point. 'You will make a profit for yourself—'

'I will see the Curteys lands sold for a fair price, and the money kept safe till Emma, as Hugh, comes of age. That will mean continuing the deception, so far as the Court of Wards at least is concerned. But there are a hundred deceptions there, though maybe none so dramatic as this. Again you will have to cooperate, Dyrick.'

'But Emma just tried to kill David, and nearly killed us!' Barak was proving hard to persuade.

'She didn't kill us, though she easily could have. And I don't think she meant to kill David. She could have shot him through the heart as easily as she could us, but she didn't. My guess is she will be desperately regretting what she did. I learned enough of his—her—nature when we were here before to understand that.'

'Him—her—God's nails!' Barak shouted. 'Are you going to take her home? Will you dress her in tunics or frocks?'

'I will help her to find somewhere to live in London. What she makes of her future then will be up to her. This is the one chance I have of fulfilling my promise to the Queen and Mistress Calfhill, whose son died because he felt he had to help her. We owe something to Michael, too.'

Dyrick looked at Hobbey. 'I can negotiate a better deal than that for you.'

'Don't be a fool, Vincent,' Hobbey said dismissively. He reached out a hand to me. 'Again, I agree to it all. Everything. Thank you, Master Shardlake, thank you.'

I could not take his hand. I looked him in the eye. 'I am not doing this for you, Master Hobbey. It is for Emma, and David, to try and bring some future for them out of all this ruination.'

BARAK AND I left the house an hour later. It was early afternoon now, the sun high and hot. We pulled the horses to a halt outside the priory gate.

'You're stark mad,' Barak told me.

'Perhaps I am. But mad or no, it is time for you to go home. No more words now. With hard riding you might make Petersfield tonight. I will try to find Emma, then follow you. If I do not catch up with you tonight, ride on tomorrow and I will meet you on the road.'

'How can you trust Hobbey and Dyrick?'

'Hobbey is a broken man now, you saw that. All he has left is David. And Dyrick knows what is good for him.'

'So much for Dyrick believing his clients were always in the right. He was as corrupt as Hobbey.'

'I still think he believed Hobbey was in the right, at least until he discovered Emma's identity. Some lawyers need to believe that. But yes, after the discovery his only concern was to save his own position. And as for what he would have done to the villagers—'

Barak looked back through the gates at the untended flower beds. 'Poor old Abigail. She'll get no justice out of this, you realize that.'

'I think in her heart she would have wanted to see David and Emma safe. I think she too was haunted by guilt.'

'What about Rich? Mylling? The corner boys? Did you believe what they said?'

'I think I know what happened there, and it did not involve Hobbey or Dyrick. I will pick up that matter in London. I will say no more now—if I am right it could be dangerous to know. But I will tell the Queen. This time Richard Rich may find he has gone too far.'

'Sure you won't tell me?'

'Quite sure. Tamasin would not want me to.'

'If Emma has chosen to go for a soldier, it is what she always wanted. Why not leave her to follow her choice?'

I answered firmly, 'She has been so hemmed all these years she is in no right mind to make a decision like that.'

He shook his head. 'You are determined to rescue her whether she wants it or no. Whatever the consequences. As with Ellen.'

'Yes.'

'What if she's not in Portsmouth?'

'Then there will be nothing else I can do, and I will return alone. Now, goodbye, Jack.' I put out my hand. 'Until tonight or tomorrow.'

'Mad,' he said. 'Completely mad. Try to stay safe, for God's sake.'

He turned his horse, spurred it, and rode fast up towards the London road. He disappeared round a bend. I patted Oddleg. 'Come, back to Portsmouth.' I said.

THE ROAD SOUTH was strangely quiet. I thought, it is Sunday. No, that was tomorrow. From the deep-set lanes I smelt smoke several times and thought, are the charcoal-burners working as far south as this? I heard shouts, too.

I began the slow climb up Portsdown Hill. And then, near the top, the air became thick with smoke and I saw a burning beacon, men milling round it. My heart thumping, I crested the escarpment. Smoke from beacon after beacon was visible, in a line all along the hills. I looked down, across Portsea Island to the sea. Then my jaw dropped and I gripped Oddleg's reins, hard.

Most of the warships were still at anchor in the Solent, though some of the smaller ships were in the harbour, small dots from here. In front of the warships half a dozen larger dots were manoeuvring rapidly to and fro. I heard a sound like the rumble of thunder that could only be cannon firing. I thought, those ships are moving and turning so fast they must be galleys, as big as the Galley Subtle. Then I saw, at the eastern end of the Isle of Wight in the distance, an enormous dark smudge. The French fleet had arrived. The invasion had begun.