Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(48)

‘I am a lawyer going to catch a boat at Temple Stairs,’ I answered shortly. ‘These are my servants.’

‘My master is on important business,’ Coldiron snapped. ‘You lot should be in the army, not making trouble here.’

The apprentice grinned at him. ‘What happened to your eye, old man?’

‘Lost at the Battle of Flodden, puppy.’

‘Come on,’ I said. We crossed the street. Behind us one of the boys called out, ‘Cripples!’

We passed into Middle Temple Lane. A thin, chill river mist surrounded us as we walked through Temple Gardens. Barak was waiting at the stairs, his own pannier at his feet. He had found an early boatman, whose craft was tied up; the lantern was lit, a yellow halo in the mist.

‘All ready?’ Barak asked. ‘This fellow will take us to Kingston.’

‘Good. How is Tamasin?’

‘Tearful last night. I left home quietly without waking her.’ He looked away. I turned to Coldiron. ‘Put those in the boat. Barak’s too.’

As Coldiron descended the steps I spoke quietly to Josephine. ‘Dr Malton is in charge while I am away,’ I said. ‘He will be your friend.’ I wondered if she understood I meant she could appeal to Guy against her father, but she only nodded, her expression blank as usual.

Coldiron reappeared, panting in an exaggerated way. Barak stepped down to the boat. ‘Goodbye, Coldiron,’ I said. ‘Take care to do everything Dr Malton asks.’ His eye glittered at me again in that nasty way. As I descended the slimy steps I knew he would have liked to pitch me in the water, on royal service or not.



ON THE RIVER the mist was thick. Everything was silent, the only sound the swish of the oars. A flock of swans glided past, quickly vanishing again. The boatman was old, with a lined, tired face. A large barge passed us, with a dozen men at the oars. Fifty or so young men sat in it, all in white coats with the red cross of England on the front. They were unnaturally quiet, their faces pale discs in the mist. But for the plashing of the oars it might have been a ship of ghosts.

The mist thinned as the sun rose, bringing a welcome warmth, and as we approached Kingston river traffic appeared. We pulled up at the old stone wharf. I looked across the river at the wooded expanse of Hampton Court Park. The Queen would already be preparing her household for the journey.

We walked down a short street to the marketplace. Dyrick had sent me a message to meet him and Feaveryear at an inn called the Druid’s Head. Barak, who had shouldered two of the panniers, remained silent and thoughtful. I gave him an enquiring look. ‘Thank you for getting me out of that mess,’ he said quietly. ‘That boat full of soldiers we saw, I could have been in one like that through my foolishness.’

‘Well, thank goodness you are safe now.’

We entered the inn courtyard. There was a large stable, the doors wide open, several horses in the stalls. Next to it was a forge, where a sweating blacksmith hammered horseshoes at an anvil beside a glowing furnace. We turned into the inn. The parlour was almost deserted save for two men breakfasting at a table, their caps and two sets of spurs on the bench beside them. Dyrick and Feaveryear. We approached and bowed. Feaveryear half-rose, but Dyrick only nodded.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he grunted. ‘We should get started.’

‘We left London at first light,’ I answered pointedly.

‘I travelled down last night, to meet Feaveryear and look at the horses. A man of countenance expects a reasonable horse.’

‘We have four good horses, and a fifth for the panniers,’ Feaveryear said smugly. Greasy hair hung over his forehead as usual. He looked tired, though Dyrick was his customary energetic self. He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and stood up briskly.

‘We should go. We need to reach Cobham tonight, nine miles away and I hear the Portsmouth road is full of soldiers and supply carts. Bring the panniers, Sam.’ Dyrick reached for his cap and led the way to the stables. Barak smiled and shook his head, earning a look of rebuke from Feaveryear.

We entered the stable building. Dyrick nodded at the ostler. ‘The others have arrived at last,’ he said. ‘Are the horses saddled and ready?’

‘Yes, sir. We’ll bring them into the yard.’

We went outside. The ostler and a boy led out five horses. They were all big, strong-looking beasts, with coats of brown and dappled grey. ‘You have done well,’ I said to Feaveryear.

‘My master said not to spare the purse. It is five pounds for the return journey.’

‘God’s warts,’ Barak breathed beside me.

‘There’s a premium on horses now,’ the ostler explained.

‘I suggest you pay the man, Brother Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘You can reclaim it from your client when she loses. Or her pay-mistress.’

‘I will pay half. That is what the court would expect. We can meet our own expenses till the outcome is known.’

Dyrick sighed, but fetched out his purse.

‘Might we get to near Portsmouth in four days?’ I asked the ostler.

He shook his head. ‘You’ll be lucky, sir. I’d plan on six or seven, the roads are so full.’

‘There, Master Shardlake,’ Dyrick said. ‘I knew how it would be.’

We mounted, Dyrick and I in front and Barak and Feaveryear behind, the horse with the panniers secured to Feaveryear’s horse with a line. As we rode into the street a rider sped into the inn yard, his horse’s flanks sweating. I saw he wore the badge of the King’s household. A harbinger, responsible for checking the King’s route in advance of a royal journey.