Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(29)

I hesitated, for I did not like to use the Queen’s name too readily. But I nodded.

‘As for Barak, make sure he doesn’t get into any more trouble. I’ll send a message as soon as I have news.’

‘Thank you.’

Carver lowered his voice. ‘I saw you looking on at the muster on Tuesday. To be honest I felt a fool sitting on that horse. This war – all because the King wants to hold Boulogne, which has no value.’

I nodded in agreement. ‘Indeed. Do what you can, sir. Please.’ I turned away, nodding to Goodryke. He barely acknowledged me.



I WALKED the short distance to Fall Lane. It was off Basinghall Street. London Wall and the high towers of the Moorgate were visible at a little distance. The houses were prosperous looking, with fine windows of mullioned glass and beautifully carved doorposts, backing onto the wide gardens of Drapers’ Hall. A merchant’s wife walked past, accompanied by two armed servants, a cloth vizard covering her face.

A small old church stood at the top of the lane. I saw the pointed steeple with its gleaming weathercock was new; this was a wealthy parish. Barak sat on the wall by the lych gate, looking pensive. He stood as I approached. ‘The verger says Vicar Broughton will be along shortly,’ he told me, then added, ‘what news?’

I told him of my encounter with Goodryke. His face fell when he realized the matter was not resolved. ‘Tammy will have my guts.’

‘Alderman Carver will do what he can. He’s on our side. The Common Council is weary of the King’s endless calls for them to raise more men. But they haven’t forgotten what happened to Alderman Read.’

Barak laughed bitterly. ‘I should think they haven’t.’

Read’s defiance had been the talk of London in January. The King had requested a Benevolence from the tax-paying classes, a ‘voluntary’ tax to add to all the others he had levied for the war. Read alone had refused, and for his pains had found himself conscripted into the army and serving with Lord Hertford’s forces on the Scottish border. He had been captured shortly after, and was now a prisoner of the Scots.

‘Has the Common Council no power left?’ Barak asked, kicking at a stone. ‘Londoners used to walk in fear of the aldermen.’

I sat beside him on the wall, squinting in the sun. ‘And they walk in fear of the King. And this Goodryke is acting in his name. But Carver will go higher up the chain of command.’

Barak was silent for a moment, then burst out, ‘Jesus, how did we get to this? There was peace with France for twenty years till this started.’

‘Perhaps the King sees keeping Boulogne as his last chance for glory. And he had his alliance with Emperor Charles last year.’

‘Right worthless that proved. The Emperor made his own peace and now we face France alone.’

I looked at him. ‘If they succeed in invading us they won’t be kind. Nor will their Scots allies. And from what the Queen said, invasion is coming.’

‘I won’t leave Tamasin now.’ He clenched his fists hard. ‘They’ll have to drag me away.’

I rose hastily as a man in a white cassock approached. Elderly, stooping, with a long grey beard. I nudged Barak. ‘Quick, get up.’ We bowed to the clergyman. His expression was serious, but his brown eyes looked kind. ‘Master Shardlake?’

‘Yes, sir. Master Broughton? This is my assistant, Barak.’

‘It is about the Curteys family?’

‘Indeed.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘at last someone has come.’



HE LED US into the church. The interior was bare, empty niches where statues of saints had once stood, stools set out for the congregation with copies of the King’s compulsory new primer laid out on them. Broughton bade us sit, lowering himself onto a stool facing us. ‘You are a lawyer, sir, I see. Do you represent Hugh Curteys? He was the only one of that poor family left.’

‘No. Hugh still lives with Master Hobbey, down in Hampshire. I have not met him. But a complaint against Master Hobbey’s conduct of his wardship has been laid by his old tutor, Michael Calfhill.’

Broughton smiled. ‘I remember Michael well. An honest young gentleman.’

‘Did he visit you recently?’ I asked.

Broughton shook his head. ‘I have not seen Michael in six years.’ That was a blow; I had hoped Michael had come here more recently. ‘How fares he?’ the vicar asked.

I took a deep breath. ‘Michael Calfhill died three weeks ago. I am sorry.’

The vicar closed his eyes for a moment. ‘May his soul be received in Heaven, by Jesus’s grace.’

‘Shortly before he died, Michael laid a Bill of Information before the Court of Wards, alleging that some monstrous injustice had been committed against Hugh Curteys. According to his mother he had recently been in Hampshire and had visited him.’

‘God help us,’ Broughton said. ‘What did he find?’

‘His Information does not say. But there is a hearing on Monday. I am going to represent his mother. I need witnesses who know about this wardship, sir. Urgently.’

Broughton collected his thoughts, then looked at me directly. ‘I knew that wardship was tainted. John and Ruth Curteys were my parishioners for years. When reform of the Church came they supported me in breaking with the old ways. They were stalwarts. I saw their children born, christened them, saw the family prosper. And then I buried John and Ruth.’ His face twitched with emotion.