Heartstone (Matthew Shardlake #5)(8)

PEOPLE THOUGHT of the Bedlam as a grim fortress where lunatics groaned and clanked their chains behind bars. There were indeed some who were chained and many who groaned, but the grey-stone exterior of the long, low building was quite pleasant looking. One approached across a wide yard, which today was vacant except for a tall, thin man dressed in a stained grey doublet. He was walking round and round, staring at the ground, his lips moving quickly. He must be a new patient, probably a man of means who had lost his wits and whose family could afford the fees to keep him here, out of the way.

I knocked at the door. It was opened by Hob Gebons, one of the warders, a big bunch of keys jangling at his belt. A stubby, thickset man in his fifties, Gebons was no more than a jailer; he had no interest in the patients, to whom he could be casually cruel, but he had some respect for me, for I stood up to the Bedlam’s keeper, Edwin Shawms, whose cruelty was not casual. And Gebons could be bribed. When he saw me he gave me a sardonic smile, showing grey teeth.

‘How is she?’ I asked.

‘Merry as a spring lamb, sir, since you sent word you were coming. Up till then she thought she had the plague. Shawms was furious watching her sweat – and she did sweat – thinking we’d be quarantined. Then your message came and within an hour she was better. I’d call it a miracle if the Church allowed miracles now.’

I stepped inside. Even on this hot summer’s day the Bedlam felt clammy. On the left was the half-open door of the parlour, where some patients sat playing dice round a scratched old table. On a stool in a corner a middle-aged woman was weeping quietly, a wooden doll clutched firmly in her hand. The other patients ignored her; here one quickly got used to such things. To the right was the long stone corridor housing the patients’ rooms. Someone was knocking on one of the doors from the inside. ‘Let me out!’ a man’s voice called.

‘Is Keeper Shawms in?’ I asked Hob quietly.

‘No. He’s gone to see Warden Metwys.’

‘I’d like a word after I’ve seen Ellen. I can’t stay more than half an hour. I have another appointment I must keep.’ I reached down to my belt and jingled my purse, nodding at him meaningfully. I slipped him small amounts when I came, to ensure Ellen at least had decent food and bedding.

‘All right, I’ll be in the office. She’s in her room.’

I did not need to ask if her door were unlocked. One thing about Ellen, she was never, ever, going to run away.

I walked down the corridor and knocked at her door. Strictly, it was improper for me to visit a single woman alone, but in the Bedlam the usual rules of conduct were relaxed. She called me in. She was sitting on her straw bed, wearing a clean, blue dress, low-cut, her graceful hands folded in her lap. Her narrow, aquiline face was calm, but her dark-blue eyes were wide, full of emotion. She had washed her long brown hair, but the ends were starting to frizz and split. It is not the sort of detail you notice if you are attracted to a woman. Therein lay the problem.

She smiled, showing her large, white teeth. ‘Matthew! You got my message. I have been so ill.’

‘You are better now?’ I asked. ‘Gebons said you had a bad fever.’

‘Yes. I feared the plague.’ She smiled nervously. ‘I was afraid.’

I sat on a stool on the other side of the room. ‘I long for news of the world,’ she said. ‘It has been more than two weeks since I saw you.’

‘Not quite two, Ellen,’ I answered gently.

‘What of the war? They won’t tell us anything, for fear it may unsettle us. But old Ben Tudball is allowed out and he saw a great troop of soldiers marching past …’

‘They say the French are sending a fleet to invade us. And that the Duke of Somerset has taken an army to the Scottish border. But it is all rumour. Nobody knows. Barak thinks the rumours come from the King’s officials.’

‘That does not mean they are untrue.’

‘No.’ I thought, she has such a sharp, quick mind, and her interest in the world is real. Yet she is stuck in here. I looked at the barred window onto the yard. I said, ‘I heard someone down the corridor banging to be let out.’

‘It’s someone new. Some poor soul that still believes they are sane.’

The atmosphere in the room was musty. I looked at the rushes on the floor. ‘These need changing,’ I said. ‘Hob should attend to it.’

She looked down, quickly scratched at her wrist. ‘Yes, I suppose they do.’ Fleas, I thought. I’ll get them too.

‘Why do we not go and stand in the doorway?’ I suggested quietly. ‘Look out at the front yard. The sun is shining.’

She shook her head, wrapping her arms round her body as though to ward off danger. ‘I cannot.’

‘You could when I first knew you, Ellen. Do you remember the day the King married the Queen? We stood in the doorway, listening to the church bells.’

She smiled sadly. ‘If I do that you will press me to go outside, Matthew. Do you think I do not know that? Do you not know how afraid I am?’ Her voice took on a bitter note and she looked down again. ‘You do not come to visit me, then when you do you press and cajole me. This is not what we agreed.’

‘I do visit you, Ellen. Even when, as now, I am busy and have worries of my own.’

Her face softened. ‘Have you, Matthew? What ails you?’