Heartstone

'Fuck off, you little arseholes!' Barak shouted. The boys fled, laughing. We stared up at the Square Tower, where wreaths of grey-black smoke were dispersing into the sky. A group of soldiers bent to reload one of the huge cannon pointing out to sea. Practice, I guessed.

We walked down to the Godshouse gate. This time we did not have Leacon to help us gain entry; I told the guard we had business with a senior officer on the Mary Rose, Master Philip West, and asked where he might be. 'It is a legal matter,' I said, 'important family news. We would not have come to Portsmouth today unless it were necessary.'

'No one's coming now if they can avoid it. You should talk to one of the clerks at the old infirmary.'

'Thank you.' We passed into the Godshouse courtyard. Barak looked at me dubiously. 'Should we be lying to these people?' he asked.

'It's the only way I'll get to see West.'

'You realize he may not be happy to answer your questions.'

'I'll tell him the information I have came from his mother. As it did.'

I looked around. Everywhere men in uniform or the bright robes of senior officials were walking and talking. We went up to the door of the old infirmary, where I told the guard my story about needing to see West. He let us pass inside.

The infirmary, still with its stained-glass windows showing saints in postures of prayer and supplication, had been partitioned off into a series of rooms. Through an open doorway I saw two officials arguing, a paper on the table between them. 'I tell you she can't take the extra hundred soldiers,' one said in urgent tones. 'The refit's made her even heavier—'

'She made it safe from Deptford, didn't she?' the other answered dismissively. He slapped the paper. 'These are the complements decided for each ship, approved by the King. Do you want to go to Portchester and argue with him?' The man looked up and caught my eye. Frowning irritably, he reached over and slammed the door shut.

A black-robed clerk passed, accompanied by a man in a lawyer's robe. I stepped in front of him. 'Excuse me, Brother, might you help me? I need to speak urgently with of one of the ship's officers, Philip West. I believe he is on the Mary Rose.'

The clerk paused, impressed by my serjeant's robe. 'All the officers are staying on the ships now. I doubt they'd let a civilian on board. Perhaps you could send a message.'

That was bad news. I considered. 'I know one of the army officers; I understand his company are out at sea today.'

'They'll be rowed back to harbour at dusk. There's not room for the soldiers to sleep on the ships.'

'I see. Thank you.'

The two men hurried on. 'I want to find Leacon when he comes back,' I told Barak. 'See if he can get me aboard the Mary Rose.'

'What, you're going to try and speak to West on his ship? If it was him that attacked Ellen, you'll be at his mercy.'

'On a ship full of soldiers and sailors? No. And I'll go alone,' I added. 'A private talk would be best. No arguments, it is decided. Now come, let's pass the afternoon at that inn, keep away from these foul humours.'

Barak gave me a searching, worried look. I turned and walked back out to the busy courtyard. Near the infirmary steps two men in their thirties were talking. One had a stern face, short black beard, and a long dark robe. The other was familiar, a green doublet setting off his coppery beard, a cap with a string of pearls on his head. Sir Thomas Seymour, whom I had last seen with Rich in that doorway at Hampton Court. He stood listening attentively to the other man.

'D'Annebault's a soldier, not a sailor,' the black-bearded man said confidently. 'He can't command a fleet that size—'

'The militia between here and Sussex are ready to stop any landing,' Seymour answered proudly.

Barak and I veered away so that Seymour's back was to us. 'So he's ended up here along with everyone else,' I said quietly. 'And that was Thomas Dudley, Lord Lisle, with him. The Lord Admiral, in charge of all the ships. He was pointed out to me at Westminster once.'

'Looks a fierce fellow.'

I glanced over my shoulder at the commander. He was known as a doughty warrior, a skilled administrator, and a hard man. Dudley caught my look and stared back for a second, his eyes dark in his pale face. I turned quickly away.

'I don't think you should go on that ship,' Barak said insistently.

'I must speak to West, I have to see how he reacts to learning Ellen's father's body has been found. We'll get out of Portsmouth first thing tomorrow, before the King comes,' I added impatiently. 'I'll go on the ship tonight if I have to.'

* * *

WE RETURNED TO the tavern and ordered a meal brought to our room. Afterwards we tried to rest, but the endless talking and shouting from Oyster Street and the wharf made that impossible: and I was impatient, conscious of how little time I had to see West. Then we heard cannon firing again, very close, rattling the shutters which we had closed against the stink. The shot was answered by another, further away.

Barak jumped up from the bed and opened the shutters. 'Christ, is that the French?'

I joined him, looking across Oyster Street at the Camber. The tide was going out, revealing the filthy mud underneath. Men were labouring at the cannon on the Round Tower. There was another tremendous crash and a burst of smoke.

'Let's see what's happening,' Barak said.

We went outside, meeting the innkeeper who was coming from the parlour with a tray of mugs. 'What was that gunfire?' I asked.

He laughed at my anxious look. 'They're testing the cannon at the Round Tower and over at Gosport. Making sure we can cover the harbour entrance if the French appear.' A sneer crossed his face. 'Did you notice a big capstan by the tower?'

'Yes.'

'There's supposed to be a chain with links a foot long stretching across the harbour mouth, that would keep any ship out. But it was taken for repair last year, and it's never come back. So we'll need guns if the French come.'

'I thought for a moment they had.'

'You'll see and hear much more if they do,' the innkeeper said. He walked away.

'That shook me,' Barak admitted. 'Let's get out.'

* * *

WE LEFT THE INN and walked up to the High Street. Outside the Guildhall a crowd had gathered to watch a strange-looking company of soldiers pass by. Instead of armour they wore knee-length tunics under short decorated waistcoats; their legs were bare and they had sandals instead of boots. Most were tall and strongly built, with hard faces under their helmets.

'More mercenaries, by the look of them,' I said. 'I wonder where these are from.'

A boy next to us piped up. 'Ireland, Master,' he said excitedly. 'They're the kerns, they're being paid to fight the French instead of the King's soldiers.'

The Irish marched by, looking neither to left nor right. The crowd dispersed, and a man who had been watching from the Guildhall doorway became visible. It was Edward Priddis. He stared at us for a second, then turned and went back inside. Barak put his hand on my arm, pointing to an open window.

'Look,' he said quietly.

Sir Quintin was seated at a table, glaring out at us. There was another man beside him. He turned, and I saw that it was Richard Rich.

'Oh shit,' Barak whispered.

Rich rose and marched smartly out of the room. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, looking angrier than I had ever seen him, spots of red in his pale cheeks. He marched across the road to me.

'What in hell's name are you doing here?' His voice was quiet as ever, but a vicious hiss rather than his usual mocking tones. 'Why are you pursuing Sir Quintin Priddis like this?' I saw a little tic jump at the corner of his eye. 'I have been hearing about your disgraceful performance at the inquest into that woman's death.'