Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(159)

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.