Heartstone

'Three years. My father worked in the kitchens at the Temple, he sent me to school and afterwards asked for a place for me as a clerk. Master Dyrick took me on. He has taught me much. He is a good master.' Again that self-righteous look.

'So you sometimes work at the Court of Wards.'

'Yes, sir.' He hesitated then added, 'I see, like many, you think it a bad place.'

I inclined my head.

'Maybe it is, but my master seeks only justice there, as in the other courts where he pleads.'

'Come, Feaveryear. Lawyers take the cases that come to them, just or no.' I remembered my conversation with the Lady Elizabeth.

Feaveryear shook his head firmly. 'My master takes only cases that are just. Like this one. I am a Christian man, sir, I could not work for a lawyer who represented bad folk.' He coloured. 'I do not mean you do that, sir, only that you are mistaken in this cause.'

I stared at him. How could he believe that Vincent Dyrick, of all people, represented only the just? Yet he obviously did. I drew a deep breath. 'Well, Feaveryear, I must go back to my inn, get some food.'

'And my master asked me to find a barber.'

We went out into the street. Dusk was falling, candles lit in the windows. Some of the carters were bedding down in their wagons.

'Probably all going to Portsmouth,' I said. 'Like our company of archers.'

'Poor fellows,' Feaveryear said sadly. 'I have seen the soldiers look at me on the journey, I know they think me a weakling. Yet I think what they may be going to, and pray for them. It is wicked they have no preacher. Most of those men have not come to God. They do not realize that death in battle may be followed by a swift journey to Hell.'

'Maybe there will be no battle. Maybe the French will not land.'

'I pray not.'

I felt a drop of rain on my hand. 'Here it comes.'

'They will get wet in the camp.'

'Yes. And I must get back to my inn. Goodnight, Feaveryear.'

'Goodnight, Master Shardlake.'

'Oh, and Feaveryear, there is a barber's in the next street. Tell your master.'

* * *

IT WAS POURING with rain by the time I reached my inn, another summer storm. Dressed as I was in only shirt and jerkin, I was soaked through. The man I had bribed to get us a place at the inn invited me to come through to the kitchen and sit by the fire, hoping no doubt for another coin. I was glad to take up the offer; I needed somewhere to think hard about what the man at the other inn had told me.

I stared into the flames as they rose. A foundry had burned down in Rolfswood two decades before, and two men had died. From her words at the Bedlam Ellen had seen a fire, seen at least one man burn. Could this have been some accident she witnessed that had driven her out of her wits? But then where did the attack on her fit in? Despite the fire I felt chilled. What if the deaths of the foundrymaster and his assistant had not been accidental? What if Ellen had seen murder and that was why she was hidden away in the Bedlam? It began to seem that Barak had been right to warn me of danger.

The thought crossed my mind of not journeying to Rolfswood after all. I could return to London and leave things as they had always been. Ellen had been safe, after all, for nineteen years; if I meddled with murder I could bring danger down on her again.

The flames in the fireplace were growing higher. Suddenly they lit, from below, some words on the fireback that made me start back and almost fall from my stool.

Grieve not, thy heart is mine.

A middle-aged woman pouring ingredients for a pottage into a bowl at the kitchen table looked at me in surprise.

'Are you all right, sir?' She hurried across. 'You have gone very pale.'

'What is that?' I asked, pointing. 'Those words, there, do you see them?'

She looked at me oddly. 'You often get words and phrases carved on firebacks in these parts.'

'What does it mean? Whose heart?'

She looked more worried than ever. 'I don't know, maybe the maker's wife had died or something. Sir, you look ill.'

I was sweating now, I felt my face flush. 'I just had a—a strange turn. I will go upstairs.'

She nodded at me sympathetically. ' 'Tis the thought of all those Frenchies sailing towards us, it makes me feel strange too. Such times, sir, such times.'

Chapter Sixteen

THE NEXT DAY, our fourth on the road, was uneventful. It was hot and sunny again, the air muggy. Fortunately the rain had not lasted long enough to damage the roads. We passed through more country of wood and pasture, reaching Petersfield towards midday and halting there to rest.