К Сэнсом - Heartstone

‘Well enough.’

‘Do you find any time to paint nowadays?’

I shook my head. ‘I did a little last year, but just now –’ I hesitated ‘– I have many demands on me.’

‘I read worry in your face.’ The gaze from the Queen’s hazel eyes was as keen as Elizabeth’s.

‘’Tis only the lines that come with age. Though not on yours, your majesty.’

‘If you ever have troubles, you know I would help you all I can.’

‘A small private matter only.’

‘An affair of the heart, perhaps?’

I glanced over at the ladies at the window, realizing that all the while the Queen had kept her voice raised sufficiently for them to hear. No one would ever be able to report that Catherine Parr had had a privy conversation with a man the King disliked.

‘No, your majesty,’ I answered. ‘Not that.’

She nodded, frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then asked, ‘Matthew, have you any experience with the Court of Wards?’

I looked at her in surprise. ‘No, your majesty.’ The Court of Wards had been founded by the King a few years ago, to deal with the wealthy orphan children throughout the land who came under his control. There was no court more corrupt, nor one where justice was less likely to be found. It was also where any documents certifying Ellen’s lunacy would be kept, for the King had legal charge of lunatics too.

‘No matter. The case I would like you to take requires an honest man above all, and you know the sort of lawyers who make wards their speciality.’ She leaned forward. ‘Would you pursue a case there? For me? I wish you to take it, rather than Master Warner, because you have more experience in representing ordinary people.’

‘I would need to refresh my mind about the procedures. But otherwise, yes.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you. One more thing you should know before I bring in your new client. Master Warner tells me Wards’ cases often involve lawyers travelling to where the young wards live to gather statements.’

‘Depositions. That is true of all the courts, your majesty.’

‘The boy concerned in this case lives in Hampshire, near Portsmouth.’

I thought, the way there from London lies through West Sussex. Where Ellen comes from.

The Queen hesitated, choosing her next words carefully. ‘The Portsmouth area may not be the safest region to travel to these next few weeks.’

‘The French? But they say they may land anywhere.’

‘We have spies in France, and the word is they are headed for Portsmouth. It is not certain, but likely. I would not have you take on this matter without knowing that, for Master Warner tells me depositions may well be needed.’

I looked at her. I sensed how much she wanted me to deal with this case. And if I could go via Rolfswood…

‘I will do it,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’ She smiled gratefully and turned to the ladies. ‘Jane, please fetch Mistress Calfhill.’

‘Now,’ she said to me quietly, ‘Bess Calfhill, whom you are about to meet, was an old servant of mine when I was Lady Latimer. A housekeeper at one of our properties in the north and later in London. She is a good, true woman, but she has recently suffered a great loss. Deal with her gently. If anyone deserves justice, it is Bess.’

The maid-in-waiting returned, bringing with her the woman I had seen in the presence chamber. She was small, frail looking. She approached with nervous steps, her hands held tightly together.

‘Come, good Bess,’ the Queen said in a welcoming voice. ‘This is Master Shardlake, a serjeant at law. Jane, bring over a chair. One for Serjeant Shardlake too.’

Mistress Calfhill lowered herself onto a cushioned chair and I sat opposite her. She studied me with her intent gaze, grey-blue eyes clear against the lined, unhappy face. She frowned for a second, perhaps noticing I was a hunchback. Then she looked at the Queen, her expression softening at the sight of the dog.

‘This is Rig, Bess,’ the Queen said. ‘Is he not a fine fellow? Come, stroke him.’

Hesitantly, Bess leaned across and touched the animal. Its feathery tail wagged. ‘Bess always loved dogs,’ the Queen told me, and I realized she had kept Rig back to help relax her old servant. ‘Now, Bess,’ the Queen said, ‘tell Serjeant Shardlake everything. Do not be afraid. He will be your true friend in this. Tell him as you told me.’

Bess leaned back, looked at me anxiously. ‘I am a widow, sir.’ She spoke softly. ‘I had a son, Michael, a goodly, gentle boy.’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away resolutely. ‘He was clever, and thanks to Lady Latimer’s – I beg pardon, the Queen’s – kindness, he went to Cambridge.’ Pride came into her voice. ‘He graduated and came back to London. He had obtained a post as tutor to a family of merchants named Curteys. In a good house near the Moorgate.’

‘You must have been proud,’ I said.

‘So I was, sir.’

‘When was this?’

‘Seven years ago. Michael was happy in his position. Master Curteys and his wife were good people. Cloth merchants. As well as their house in London they had bought some woodland belonging to a little nunnery down in Hampshire, in the country north of Portsmouth. All the monasteries were going down then.’

‘I remember very well.’

‘Michael said the nuns had lived in luxury from the profits of selling the wood.’ She frowned, shaking her head. ‘Those monks and nuns were bad people, as the Queen knows.’ Bess Calfhill, clearly, was another reformer.

‘Tell Master Shardlake about the children,’ the Queen prompted.

‘The Curteyses had two children, Hugh and Emma. I think Emma was twelve then, Hugh a year younger. Michael brought them to see me once and I would see them when I visited him.’ She smiled fondly. ‘Such a pretty boy and girl. Both tall, with light brown hair, sweet-natured quiet children. Their father was a good reformer, a man of new thinking. He had Emma as well as Hugh taught Latin and Greek, as well as sportly pastimes. My son enjoyed archery and taught the children.’

‘Your son was fond of them?’

‘As if they were his own. You know how in rich households spoiled children can make tutors’ lives a misery, but Hugh and Emma enjoyed their learning. If anything, Michael thought they were too serious, but their parents encouraged that: they wanted them to grow up godly folk. Michael thought Master Curteys and his wife kept the children too close to them. But they loved them dearly. Then, then –’ Bess stopped suddenly and looked down at her lap.

‘What happened?’ I asked gently.

When she looked up again her eyes were blank with grief. ‘There was plague in London the second summer Michael was with them. The family decided to go down to Hampshire to visit their lands. They were going with friends, another family who had bought the old nunnery buildings and the rest of the lands. The Hobbeys.’ She almost spat out the name.

‘Who were they?’ I asked.

‘Nicholas Hobbey was another cloth merchant. He was having the nunnery converted to a house and Master Curteys’ family was to stay with them. Michael was going down to Hampshire too. They were packing to leave when Master Curteys felt the boils under his arm. He had barely been put to bed when his wife collapsed. They were both dead in a day. Along with their steward, a good man.’ She sighed heavily. ‘You know how it comes.’

‘Yes.’ Not just plague, but all the diseases born of the foul humours of London. I thought of Joan.

‘Michael and the children escaped. Hugh and Emma were devastated, clinging to each other for comfort, crying. Michael did not know what would become of them. There were no close relatives.’ She set her jaw. ‘And then Nicholas Hobbey came. But for that family my son would still be alive.’ She stared at me, her eyes suddenly full of rage.