C.J. Sansom - Heartstone

'Hugh said the guns in the forts will stop the French getting into Portsmouth Haven.'

'If the French manage to disable our fleet, the French galleys could land men on the Portsea coast. That's why there are so many soldiers posted along there. And if the French have thirty thousand men—well, we have maybe six thousand soldiers, many of them foreign mercenaries. Nobody knows how the militia will do. They are stout-hearted but little trained. The fear is that the French may land somewhere on Portsea Island and cut it off from the mainland. The King himself could end besieged in Portsmouth. You've seen they're preparing for a siege.'

'Is it really so bad?'

'Chance will play a big part. In a sea battle all depends on the winds, which the sailors say are unpredictable here. That could make or mar us.' He paused. 'My advice to you is to get away as soon as you can.'

I thought of Rich. 'Someone else gave me that advice earlier today.'

'There could be hard fighting on the beaches.'

'Do you think you will go there or on the ships in the end?'

'I don't know. But either way my men and I will fight to protect the people. Do not doubt it.'

'I don't. Not for a moment.' Leacon had placed his hands on his knees and I saw one was trembling again. He made a fist of it.

'Pray God it does not come to that,' I said quietly.

'Amen.' He looked at me. 'You have changed much since York, Matthew. You seem to have a weight of anxiety and sadness in you.'

'Do I?' I sighed heavily. 'Well, perhaps I have reason. Four years ago I drowned a man. Then two years after that I was nearly drowned myself, shut in a sewer with a madman. Since then—' I hesitated. 'I am used to the Thames, George, but the sea—I haven't seen it since I sailed back from Yorkshire. It seems so vast, I confess it frightens me.'

'You are no longer young, Matthew,' he said gently. 'You are well past forty now.'

'Yes, my hair has grey well mingled with the black.'

'You should marry, settle down, have a quiet life.'

'There was one I would have married, a while ago, the widow of a friend. She lives in Bristol now. She writes from time to time. She is my age and in her last letter said she will soon be a grandmother. So yes, I begin to grow old.'

The sound of voices from the infirmary made us look up. In the doorway men in bright doublets were buckling on swords. Servants were leading horses round from the outhouses. Leacon stood. 'I will leave you now. I will see you back at camp. Take care.' He laid a hand on my shoulder, then turned and walked away to the gates. I watched him go, with his soldier's straight back and long stride.

OUTSIDE THE infirmary two men were arguing, surrounded by a group of interested onlookers. One was tall and grey bearded, well dressed and with a sword at his waist; the other wore a clerk's robe. I heard the tall man shout, his voice carrying. 'I tell you, with three hundred soldiers as well as two hundred sailors and all those cannon she'll be overloaded! And what about the weight of all the supplies, if we're victualled for five hundred?' The clerk said something in reply. 'Nonsense,' the grey-bearded man shouted. The clerk shrugged and walked away. The other man detached himself from the group and marched across to where I sat. As he came close I saw Philip West was not only grey but half-bald. He wore a short jacket and a high-collared doublet with satin buttons, his shirt collar raised to make a little ruff in the new fashion. He halted before me. His tanned, weathered face was deeply lined, his expression strained. He gave me a puzzled frown. 'Is it you left a message for me?' he asked in a deep voice.

I rose stiffly. 'Yes, sir, if you are Master West.'

'I am Philip West, assistant purser on the Mary Rose . What does a lawyer want with me?'

I bowed. 'I am Serjeant Matthew Shardlake. I regret to trouble you now, sir, but I am trying to trace someone. For a client.' I studied West's face. If he was around forty now he had aged far beyond his years. His small, deep-set brown eyes were searching, his whole bearing that of a man burdened with responsibility.

'Who do you seek? Quick, man, I have little time.'

I took a deep breath. 'A woman from Rolfswood. Ellen Fetti-place.'

West's shoulders sank, as though I had placed a final, unbearable burden upon them. 'Ellen?' he said quietly. 'What is this? I have not heard of her in nineteen years. Then two days ago I saw Priddis riding in the town, or what is left of him. And now you come.'

'I have a client who is seeking relatives; he heard there was a family called Fettiplace in Rolfswood. I have come to Hampshire on business and I called in there.'

West was looking at me intently now. 'So you do not know whether she is still alive?'

I hesitated. 'No.' I felt as though each lie was drawing me further into a bog. 'Only that after the accident her reason was affected, and she was taken away to London.'

'Then you have come to me with this, now, for no other reason than someone's fool curiosity?' West's voice rose in anger.

'My client, I am sure, would help Ellen if he knew where she was.'

'And he is called Fettiplace? Does he not know others of that name in London? Does he know nothing of her?' He frowned, his eyes searching me hard.

'No, sir. That is why he seeks relatives.'

West sat down on the bench I had vacated, looked away and shook his head a couple of times as though trying to clear it. When he spoke again his tone had changed completely. 'Ellen Fettiplace was the love of my life,' he said with quiet intensity. 'I was going to ask her to marry me, despite—' He did not finish the sentence. 'On the day of the fire I rode over from Petworth to tell her father my intentions. I was with the King's court, which was on summer Progress at Petworth. Master Fettiplace said he would support the match if Ellen agreed. I had asked him to meet me in private, Ellen was not present. He agreed to the match. Duties meant I had to ride back to Petworth that night, but I planned to travel back and see her two days later, make my proposal. It is not a thing one wants to rush.'

'No.'

'But next day a message arrived at Petworth from the curate, telling me about the fire and that Master Fettiplace was dead.'

'Reverend Seckford? I spoke with him when I went to Rolfs-wood.'

'Then he will have told you Ellen refused to see me after the fire?'

'Yes. Or anyone else. I am sorry.'

West seemed to want to talk. 'Ellen liked me, I knew that. But I was not sure she would have me. She would not want to lose her precious independence. Her father allowed her too much.' He hesitated a long moment, then said, looking at me with haunted eyes that reminded me of Leacon, 'She was—wilful. She needed someone to master her properly.' He spoke with a sort of desperate sincerity.

'You think women should be mastered?'

Anger flared in West's face again. 'You presume, sir.'

'I apologize.'

He continued quietly, 'What happened to her, it broke me. I never saw her again. So I went to sea. Is that not what men do when their hearts are broken?' He gave a humourless smile, a rictus showing strong white teeth that seemed to split his brown face in two. He collected himself. 'Your friend should leave this be. Ellen was taken away to London, she may be dead by now.'

'I know Sir Quintin Priddis conducted the inquest, and afterwards arranged for her to be taken away. In fact I have business with him, in his capacity as feodary of Hampshire.'

'Have you spoken with him about this?' West asked sharply.

'No.'

'Then I advise you not to, and to tell your friend to leave this alone. There were things about that fire it is better not to go into, especially after all this time. Priddis did right: it was better Ellen was taken away.'