Heartstone

'What happened in there, lawyer? We heard her screaming from the other end of the building. Her that's normally more quiet and biddable than any of them. What did you say to her, or maybe do to her?' His glare turned into a vicious leer.

'Nothing. I only told her I may be going away for a while.' I had to say as little as possible, for her sake.

'Well, that's the best news I've heard since they put Cromwell's head on a pike.' Shawms's eyes narrowed. 'That's all? I heard her screaming about burning men, the sky swallowing her.'

'She started shouting when I told her I was going, I didn't understand any of it.'

'They'll say any sort of crazy rubbish when they're riled.' Shawms leered again. 'Doesn't like the idea of you going away, does she?'

I heard muttering on the other side of the door, male voices, something being moved. 'What are they doing to her?' I asked.

'Tying her up. It's what happens to those who make scenes. Be grateful it's not the chains.'

'But she's ill—'

'And those who are ill must be restrained. Then perhaps they'll learn to restrain themselves.' He leaned forward. 'This was your fault, Master Shardlake, for coming here so much. I don't think you should come again for a while. If you're going away, maybe now she'll realize you're not going to order your life around her, and that may do her good. We'll keep an eye on her, make sure she does nothing stupid.'

'Maybe it would be easier for you all if she died,' I said quietly.

He shook his head and looked at me seriously. 'That it would not, Master Shardlake. We've kept her safe here nineteen years, and will go on keeping her safe.'

'Safe from what?'

'From herself.' He leaned forward and said, slowly and emphatically, 'The only danger to Ellen Fettiplace is from people stirring her up. It's best for everyone if she stays here, grazing like a contented cow. Go and do your business. Then when you come back, we'll see where we are.'

'Let me look in that room before I go. See that she's all right.'

Shawms hesitated, then knocked on Ellen's door. Gebons opened it. Palin stood by the bed. Ellen's feet were tied, and her hands too. She stared at me and her eyes were no longer blank, they were full of anger again.

'Ellen,' I said. 'I am sorry—'

She did not reply, just stared back, clenching her bound hands. Shawms closed the door. 'There,' he said. 'See the damage you have done.'

Chapter Ten

AGAIN I CLIMBED the stairs to the Court of Wards. Barak was at my side, the Curteys case papers tied in red ribbon under his arm. We passed under the carving of the seaclass="underline" Pupillis Orphanis et Viduis Adiutor.

It was a beautiful, warm morning. I had walked down to Westminster, where I had arranged to meet Barak outside the court half an hour before the hearing. I found my assistant leaning against the wall, looking as worried as I had ever seen him.

'Goodryke called again last night,' he said without preliminary.

'By Mary, that man is obsessed.'

'Tammy answered the door, told him I was out. He ordered me to be sure to attend for swearing in in two days' time. If I don't they'll be after me as a deserter.'

'It's time to get you out of London,' I said firmly. 'It doesn't matter where.'

'Even if I go, Goodryke won't let it lie. You can hang for desertion now.'

Before I could reply I felt a touch on my arm. It was Bess Calfhill, dressed in black again. She looked nervous.

'Am I late?' she asked. 'I feared I was lost among all these buildings and alleyways—'

'No, Mistress Calfhill. Come, we should go in. We'll talk afterwards, Jack.'

We climbed the stairs, walked under the coat of arms. I was relieved to see Reverend Broughton sitting on the bench in his cassock. He looked solid, determined. A little further up the bench Vincent Dyrick looked at me and shook his head slightly, as though amazed by the unreasonableness of the whole situation. Next to him young Feaveryear was ordering papers into a large bundle.

'Good morning,' I said to them, as cheerfully as I could for I had been worrying about Barak and Ellen for most of the night.

Bess looked anxiously at Dyrick. 'Where will the case be heard, sir?' she asked quietly. Dyrick nodded at the door to the court. 'In there, madam. But do not worry,' he added scoffingly, 'we will not be there long.'

'Now, Brother Dyrick,' I said reprovingly. 'You are for the defence, you are not allowed to talk to the applicant.'

Dyrick snorted. 'The late applicant's personal representative, you mean.'

Barak approached Feaveryear. 'That's some pile of paperwork you've got.'

'Bigger than yours,' Feaveryear replied in a tone of righteous resentment, staring at the much smaller bundle Barak carried.

'Oh, mine's always big enough for the job in hand. So my wife says, anyway,' Barak retorted. Feaveryear looked scandalized, then pointed a thin finger at the documents Barak carried. 'Those are tied in red ribbon,' he said. 'Papers for Wards require to be tied in black.' He nodded at the black ribbon round his own files.

Dyrick looked up. 'The applicant's bundles are in the wrong colour ribbon?' He stared at me. 'I have heard of cases being thrown out of Wards for lesser errors.'

'Then you must tell the Master,' I replied, cursing myself inwardly for my mistake. I had missed the rule in my haste.

'I will.' Dyrick smiled wolfishly.

The court door opened, and the black-robed usher I had seen in Mylling's office appeared. 'Those concerned in the wardship of Hugh Curteys,' he intoned. I heard a gasp of indrawn breath from Bess. Dyrick rose, his robe rustling as he strode to the door.

* * *

THE COURTROOM was the smallest I had ever entered. It was dimly lit by narrow arched windows set high in an alcove, the walls undecorated. Sir William Paulet, Master of the Court of Wards, sat at the head of a large table covered with green cloth, a wooden partition behind him blank save for the royal coat of arms. Beside him Mylling sat, his head lowered. The usher showed Dyrick and me to places at the table facing the Master. Barak and Feaveryear sat beside us. Bess Calfhill and Reverend Broughton were waved to seats separated from the body of the court by a low wooden bar.

Paulet wore the red robes of a judge, a gold chain of office round his neck. He was in his sixties, with a lined, hoary face and narrow lips above a short white beard. His large, dark blue eyes conveyed intelligence and authority but no feeling. I knew he had been master of the court since its founding five years before. Before that he had been a judge at the trial of Sir Thomas More, as well as a commander of the royal forces against the northern rebels nine years earlier.

He began by giving me a thin smile. 'Serjeant Shardlake. Master Dyrick I know, but I think you are new to my court.'

'Yes, Master.'

He stared at me for a long moment, frowning. I guessed he was annoyed by the Queen's interference in his court. He nodded brusquely at the papers in front of him. 'These are strange allegations. Please explain the matter.'

Dyrick half rose. 'If I may mention a point of procedure, Master, the papers of the claimant's personal representative are not in the correct form. The ribbon should be black—'

'Do not be silly, Brother Dyrick,' Paulet said quietly. 'Sit down.'

Dyrick flushed but remained on his feet. 'And the papers, such as they are, were filed very late—'

'Sit down.'

Dyrick did so, frowning. He had hoped to earn me at least a reproving word from the judge. Paulet turned back to me. 'Yes, Serjeant Shardlake?'

I made the best of my weak case. Quills scratched as Barak, Feaveryear and Mylling took notes. I explained Michael's long association with the Curteys children, his good character and record as a tutor, and his serious concern about Hugh after his recent visit to Hampshire. I said his mother believed his complaint warranted urgent investigation.