Heartstone

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.'

I made myself look him in the face. 'I did not know you were acquainted with the Hobbeys, Sir Richard.'

'I am not. But I knew Sir Quintin once, and he has told me of your obsession with some supposed injustice to the Hugh Curteys boy, and your persecution—' he almost snarled the word—'of that family. You go too far, master lawyer. Remember where that led you once before. If you have come to trouble Sir Quintin again—'

'My presence in Portsmouth is nothing to do with that case, Sir Richard.'

'Then what are you doing here? Eh?'

'I have legal business—'

'What business? With whom?'

'Sir Richard, you know such information is privileged.'

The flat grey eyes glared into mine, the black pupils like needles. 'How long are you here?'

'I leave tomorrow.'

'When the King comes to Portsmouth. You had better be gone.' He leaned forward. 'Remember I am a privy councillor, Master Shardlake, and this is a city preparing for war. If I wanted, I could have Governor Paulet lock you up as a suspected French spy.'

Chapter Thirty-eight