Heartstone

'I know. I know.'

'I don't care if it's a girl—' He broke off. The screaming had stopped. There was a long, terrifying moment of silence. Then, faintly, we heard another sound, the grizzling cry of a baby. Barak's mouth fell open. The door opened and Guy came out, wiping his hands on a towel. He smiled.

'Jack, you have a fine, healthy son.'

He jumped up, ran over and pumped Guy's hand. 'Thank you! Thank you!' He was panting with relief.

'Thank Tamasin. She did the work. It was easy enough in the end—' But Barak had rushed past him into the room. I followed more slowly.

Goodwife Marris stood by the bed, holding a tiny form wrapped in swaddling clothes. Barak threw himself on Tamasin.

'Take care, fool,' she said softly. She smiled, stroked his head. 'Go and see your son.'

He went over to the child. Guy and I looked over Goodwife Marris's shoulder. 'He's—he's wonderful,' Barak said. Gently he took one of the baby's tiny hands in his own.

'He is,' I said, though in truth all babies look the same to me, like little old men. But he seemed healthy, screaming at the top of his lungs. I saw he had a fuzz of blond hair like Tamasin's.

Barak turned to Guy, his face momentarily anxious. 'He is healthy?'

'As healthy a child as I ever saw.'

Barak looked again at his son. 'Just think,' he said quietly. 'He could live to see a new century. Think of that, think of that.'

'Your John,' Tamasin said quietly from the bed.

Barak thought a moment, looked at me, then said, 'Tammy, do you mind if we give him another name?'

'What?' she asked, surprised.

'Let us call him George,' he answered softly. 'Like our first baby. I'd like to name him George Llewellyn Carswell.' He looked at me. 'To remember them.'

Epilogue

NOVEMBER 1545—FOUR MONTHS LATER

There was a cold wind in the churchyard. The last leaves had fallen and it sent them whirling and whispering around my feet. I pulled my coat tighter round me as I walked towards the church. Winter was come.

I stopped at Joan's grave and placed a last rose from my garden before the headstone. I stood a moment, wondering what she would have thought of the events in my household that summer. I still had no steward; I had interviewed several men, but none had the sensitivity I felt was needed to deal with Josephine. She was much better, but any mistakes she made, any little criticism, set her to dithering clumsiness. Occasionally when I came home from Lincoln's Inn I would see her looking out on the street, with a strange, intent expression. I guessed she was looking out for Coldiron, with what mixture of fear and desire for the security of his presence I did not know.

I had returned to work, grateful now for the routine. But sometimes when I was tired I still had that dreadful sensation of the ground slipping and sliding beneath my feet. I went on to my friend Roger's grave; the autumn rains had brought dirty streaks to the marble. I thought, I must send one of the boys to clean it. Simon would be leaving my house soon, as apprentice to a mercer; I had arranged it with Alderman Carver. I remembered how after Roger's death I had wanted to marry his widow. I had heard nothing from Dorothy in recent months. Nor had I heard from the Queen, nor Warner; but I had not expected to.

There was a bench outside the old church, and I cleared some leaves from it and sat down. I looked towards the churchyard wall, remembering the muster in Lincoln's Inn Fields back in June. The French had given up their plan to invade England now, their fleet had returned to France, where the siege of Boulogne dragged on; English troops inside the city, the French army outside. All a useless waste of time. Rumour said that the King had, at long last, realized his enterprise against France had failed utterly, and there would be a peace treaty in the New Year.

I looked towards the churchyard gate. This time I had not come here to ponder, but for a meeting, one best held away from the nosiness of Lincoln's Inn. As I watched, the gate opened and a tall, slim figure in a heavy coat and dark cap walked towards me. Emma Curteys still carried herself like a boy, dressed as a boy, looked like a boy. I invited her to sit beside me. She sat quietly for a moment, then turned and looked at me enquiringly. Her scarred face was pale.

'It is done,' I said.

'Were there any difficulties?'

'None, as everyone was agreed. Dyrick was there to confirm Hobbey's approval of the sale of the wardship. And Edward Priddis to approve the valuation. He is Hampshire feodary since his father died in September. Sir William Paulet raised no queries, so it is done.' I smiled uneasily. 'You are my ward now or, rather, Hugh Curteys is.'

She said quietly, 'Thank you.'

Emma had appeared in my chambers back in August. It was as well I was there, for Skelly would have refused entry to the thin, dirty boy who came asking for me. Emma told me she had not wanted to come, but a month penniless on the road, stealing from farmhouses, had worn her down and overcome her pride. I had given her money and found her a room in the city until the application to transfer the wardship could be heard.

I spoke hesitantly. 'Hobbey was there too, in case he was needed. Hoyland Priory has been sold to Sir Luke Corembeck.'

Emma looked at me. 'How is David?'

'He can walk a little now. But he has had more attacks of the falling sickness. Hobbey will not let him out of his sight; my physician friend thinks he protects him too much.' I looked at her. 'He is still sick with guilt and shame.'

'Master Hobbey always had to have people to be in charge of.' Emma paused, then looked at me and said with sudden passion, 'Yet I think constantly of David, what I did. I would put it right if I could.'

'I know.'

'And I think of the soldiers—I dream of them falling into the water, the screams of those trapped men.'

'So do I.' I had never told Emma that but for Rich's machinations it would have been a different company of soldiers on the Mary Rose. I would not have her share my unending sense of guilt. I remembered visiting Leacon's parents in Kent, to tell them their son was dead, and offer what financial help I could. The two old people had been lost, broken.

Emma said, 'Thank you, Master Shardlake. I am sorry I did not trust you from the beginning. I did not think anyone could get me away from Hoyland and the Hobbeys, and I had stopped wanting to leave.'

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and looked at her. 'Why did you let them do it to you, Emma?'

'At first to save myself from marriage to David. But—when I became a boy, I realized how much more power a male child has in the world. And—' she hesitated momentarily, then continued—'in a strange way it was as though wearing his clothes and pretending to be him kept my brother alive. Can you understand that?'

'Perhaps. But later—you could have changed your identity back and claimed your lands. There would have been nothing the Hobbeys could have done.'

She shook her head. 'I had been Hugh for too long by then. There would have been a scandal. And a disfigured young woman, alone, even one with money, has little power. Far less than a man. And I wanted to be a soldier so much.' She laughed mirthlessly. 'What am I, I wonder? Perhaps something new in the world.'

I did not know how to reply. We were silent a few moments, then Emma said, 'I heard they have given up trying to raise the Mary Rose. The masts have collapsed, she has settled into the silt. With the remains of all those men, God rest their souls.'

We were silent a moment. Then I asked, 'What will you do? As I have said before, you can do what you like with your life now. That is what I wanted for you. The Court of Wards has permitted me to hold all your money. I have to hold it for three years, but whatever sums you want, just ask. So far as I am concerned it is yours. God knows you deserve it after what it has cost you. I have it safe in the old gold coins, protected from this endless collapse in the value of money.'