Heartstone

Barak laughed bitterly. 'I should think they haven't.'

Read's defiance had been the talk of London in January. The King had requested a Benevolence from the tax-paying classes, a 'voluntary' tax to add to all the others he had levied for the war. Read alone had refused, and for his pains had found himself conscripted into the army and serving with Lord Hertford's forces on the Scottish border. He had been captured shortly after, and was now a prisoner of the Scots.

'Has the Common Council no power left?' Barak asked, kicking at a stone. 'Londoners used to walk in fear of the aldermen.'

I sat beside him on the wall, squinting in the sun. 'And they walk in fear of the King. And this Goodryke is acting in his name. But Carver will go higher up the chain of command.'

Barak was silent for a moment, then burst out, 'Jesus, how did we get to this? There was peace with France for twenty years till this started.'

'Perhaps the King sees keeping Boulogne as his last chance for glory. And he had his alliance with Emperor Charles last year.'

'Right worthless that proved. The Emperor made his own peace and now we face France alone.'

I looked at him. 'If they succeed in invading us they won't be kind. Nor will their Scots allies. And from what the Queen said, invasion is coming.'

'I won't leave Tamasin now.' He clenched his fists hard. 'They'll have to drag me away.'

I rose hastily as a man in a white cassock approached. Elderly, stooping, with a long grey beard. I nudged Barak. 'Quick, get up.' We bowed to the clergyman. His expression was serious, but his brown eyes looked kind. 'Master Shardlake?'

'Yes, sir. Master Broughton? This is my assistant, Barak.'

'It is about the Curteys family?'

'Indeed.'

'So,' he said, 'at last someone has come.'

* * *

HE LED US into the church. The interior was bare, empty niches where statues of saints had once stood, stools set out for the congregation with copies of the King's compulsory new primer laid out on them. Broughton bade us sit, lowering himself onto a stool facing us. 'You are a lawyer, sir, I see. Do you represent Hugh Curteys? He was the only one of that poor family left.'

'No. Hugh still lives with Master Hobbey, down in Hampshire. I have not met him. But a complaint against Master Hobbey's conduct of his wardship has been laid by his old tutor, Michael Calfhill.'

Broughton smiled. 'I remember Michael well. An honest young gentleman.'

'Did he visit you recently?' I asked.

Broughton shook his head. 'I have not seen Michael in six years.' That was a blow; I had hoped Michael had come here more recently. 'How fares he?' the vicar asked.

I took a deep breath. 'Michael Calfhill died three weeks ago. I am sorry.'

The vicar closed his eyes for a moment. 'May his soul be received in Heaven, by Jesus's grace.'

'Shortly before he died, Michael laid a Bill of Information before the Court of Wards, alleging that some monstrous injustice had been committed against Hugh Curteys. According to his mother he had recently been in Hampshire and had visited him.'

'God help us,' Broughton said. 'What did he find?'

'His Information does not say. But there is a hearing on Monday. I am going to represent his mother. I need witnesses who know about this wardship, sir. Urgently.'

Broughton collected his thoughts, then looked at me directly. 'I knew that wardship was tainted. John and Ruth Curteys were my parishioners for years. When reform of the Church came they supported me in breaking with the old ways. They were stalwarts. I saw their children born, christened them, saw the family prosper. And then I buried John and Ruth.' His face twitched with emotion.

'Did they have any other family?'

Broughton clasped his hands on his lap. 'They came to London from Lancaster. Like many young folk John came here to seek his fortune. In time their parents died. When the plague took John and Ruth there was only an old aunt of Ruth's left in the north that she spoke of sometimes and wrote to. Michael came to me, concerned by Master Hobbey's interest in the children's wardship—I suggested he look for letters from her, and I would write to her. Sir,' he burst out suddenly, 'how did Michael die?'

I answered gently, 'The verdict was suicide. What he found in Hampshire may have disturbed the balance of his mind.'

'Oh, dear God.' Broughton put his head in his hands.

'I am sorry, sir. But please, tell me what you can about the wardship. What of the aunt?'

'Michael brought her address. By that time, he said, Nicholas Hobbey was already taking away papers and books of account. Michael argued with him, but Hobbey brushed him aside—Michael had no status.'

'It sounds as though you knew Michael well.'