Heartstone (74 page)

BARAK LAY ON his bed, re-reading his letters from Tamasin. I pulled off my boots and sat on the side of my own bed, wondering how to tell him what I had decided.

‘George Leacon sends his good wishes,' I told him. ‘I have said farewell. The King will be in Portsmouth at nine tomorrow. He is going on the ships.'

‘We must be gone before then,' Barak answered firmly.

‘Yes, we must.'

‘Did you get on the
Mary Rose
?'

‘Yes.'

‘What's it like?'

‘Extraordinary. Beautiful and terrifying.'

‘You saw West?'

‘Yes.' I rubbed my neck. ‘He was angry with me, he grabbed at me.'

‘I told you it was dangerous,' he said impatiently.

‘There were people near. In fact the purser interrupted us and ordered me away before I found out all I needed.'

‘Did you get the name of that friend of his?'

‘I asked him straight out if the other man was Warner, but he denied it. He gave me a name I have never heard of. I fear he was making it up. Jack, I am sure West knows Ellen is in the Bedlam.'

‘If the story of the letter was true, why keep the man's name secret now?'

‘Perhaps because they raped Ellen together.'

He lay back on the bed. ‘More imagining.'

‘If only that purser hadn't interrupted us-'

‘Well, you did what you could. Now let's get back to London.'

‘Tomorrow I am going first to Portchester Castle. I have to see the Queen. And Warner. She is not accompanying the King, it is an ideal opportunity. I am going to find out if Warner was at Rolfswood that day.'

He sat up. ‘No,' he said quietly. ‘You are going to let this go and come back to London.'

‘What if it was Warner that betrayed me to Rich? An agent of Rich's in the Queen's household!'

‘Even if that's true, you know everyone at court spies on each other. And if it's not true, you could lose Warner's friendship and patronage.'

‘I owe the Queen. If one of her trusted advisers is in Richard Rich's pay-'

‘You
don't
owe the Queen,' he answered with slow intensity. ‘
She
owes
you
. She always has: you saved her life, remember? I wish you had never let her drag you back anywhere near the court.' His voice rose. ‘Go to Portchester? It's mad. What if Rich is there?'

‘All the privy councillors are going to the tents. But the Queen is staying behind, so her household will be too.'

‘What would you say to Warner anyway?'

‘Ask some hard questions.'

‘This isn't courage, you know. It's wilful, blinkered stubbornness.'

‘You don't have to come.'

He looked at me and I saw he was utterly weary, tired beyond belief. He said quietly, ‘That's what you said about coming back here today. But I came, just like I've come almost everywhere on this damned journey. You know why? Because I was ashamed, ashamed from the moment we met those soldiers on the road, of how I'd dodged their fate. But I'm not so ashamed I'll follow you into that lion's den. So there, that's it. If you go to Portchester Castle, this time you go alone.'

‘I didn't know you felt—'

‘No. I've just been useful to have around. Like poor Leacon.'

‘That's not fair,' I said, stung.

‘Isn't it? You used him twice to get you to West, though he has a company of soldiers to lead. But there are only so many favours a man can call in from anyone.' He turned away and lay back down.

I sat in silence. Outside two drunks were walking down the streets, shouting, ‘King Harry's coming! The King's coming, to see off the Frenchies!'

BARAK AND I SPOKE LITTLE during the remainder of the evening, only discussing the practicalities of the morrow's journey with uncomfortable, restrained politeness. Now I fully understood how reluctant he had been to support me in each successive stage of what he increasingly saw as my folly: he seemed to have given up arguing with me, which disturbed me more than any harsh words. We went early to bed, but it was long before I slept.

We had asked the innkeeper to be sure and wake us at seven, but the wretched man forgot and did not call till past eight. Thus one of the most crowded and terrible days of my life began with Barak and I struggling hastily into our clothes, pulling on our boots, and hurrying breakfastless to the stables. When we rode out into Oyster Street it was already lined with soldiers, helmets and halberds brightly polished, waiting for the King. A sumptuous canopied barge was drawn up at the wharf, a dozen men resting at the oars. Out at sea the ships stood waiting, great streamers in Tudor green and white, perhaps eighty feet long, fluttering gently from the topmasts.

To save time we avoided the main streets, riding up a lane between the town fields to the gate. It was another beautiful summer morning, Saturday, the 18th of July. All around soldiers waited outside their tents in helmets and jacks and, occasionally, brigandynes, captains on horseback facing the road in burnished breastplates and plumed helmets that reminded me of that first muster in London near a month ago.

‘Is the King coming this way?' Barak asked.

‘I would think he'll go down the High Street. But they all have to be ready.'

‘Shit!' he breathed. ‘Look there!' He pointed to a bearded man standing to attention beside a mounted captain, halberd held rigid, frowning with solemn importance.

I stared. ‘Goodryke!' Barak averted his head from the whiffler who had tried so hard to conscript him, and we rode swiftly past.

WHERE THE town streets converged at the gate there was a milling throng. Many were on horseback, merchants by their look. They were trying to get through, but soldiers were pressing them back. ‘I've to fetch five cartloads of wheat in today,' a red-faced man was shouting. ‘I have to get out on the road to meet them.'

‘It's to be kept clear for the King. No one enters or leaves till he has passed through. He'll be here in a few minutes.'

‘Damn!' I breathed. ‘Come, let's get to the back of the crowd.' I tried to turn Oddleg round, but people were packed too closely together. ‘He's coming!' A captain shouted from the gate. ‘Everyone stay where they are!'

So we sat waiting. Looking down the High Street, I saw behind the soldiers facing the road hundreds of townsfolk, some holding up English flags. Brightly coloured wall hangings and carpets hung from the first-floor windows of the houses, and there were even people standing on the roofs. I looked behind me at the crowd and saw, at the back, Edward Priddis and his father on horseback. They stared at me, Edward stonily and Sir Quintin balefully. I turned away and looked up at the walkway atop the town walls, crowded with soldiers. I patted Oddleg, who, like many of the horses in the tense crowd, was nervous.

A soldier on the walls cupped his hands and shouted down, ‘He comes!' I pulled my cap forward to hide my face as the soldiers cheered. There was a sound of tramping feet and a company of pikemen marched in through the gate. A group of courtiers followed, in furs and satins, Rich among them. Then the unmistakable figure of the King rode slowly in, his gigantic horse draped in a canopy of cloth of gold. He wore a fur-trimmed scarlet robe set with jewels that glinted in the sun, a black cap with white feathers on his head. When I had seen him four years before he had been big, but now his body was vast, legs like tree trunks in golden hose sticking out from the horse's side. Beside him rode Lord Lisle, stern as when I had seen him at the Godshouse, and a large man whom I recognized from York as the Duke of Suffolk; his beard now was long, forked and white; he had become an old man.

Cheers rose from the streets, and a crash of cannon from the Camber sounded a welcome. I risked a glance at the King's face as he passed, fifteen feet from me. Then I stared, so different was it from four years before. The deep-set little eyes, beaky nose and small mouth were now surrounded by a great square of fat that seemed to press his features into the centre of his head. His beard was thin, and almost entirely grey. He was smiling, though, and began waving to the welcoming crowds, tiny eyes swivelling keenly over them. In that grotesque face I thought I read pain and weariness, and something more. Fear? I wondered whether even that man of titanic self-belief might think, as the French invasion force approached, what will happen now? Even, perhaps:
What have I done?

Still waving, he rode away down the High Street, towards the barge that would take him to the
Great Harry
.

HALF AN HOUR passed before the King's entire retinue had entered the town and we were able to ride out. From the seafront more cannon resounded as the King arrived at the wharf. Beyond the gate the soldiers lining the road were now falling out of line, wiping sweat from their brows.

‘Christ's blood, he's aged,' Barak said. ‘How old is he now?'

I calculated. ‘Fifty-four.'

‘Is that all? Jesu. Imagine the Queen having to sleep with that.'

‘I prefer not.'

‘That I believe.' He ventured a smile and I smiled sadly back, glad the ice was broken.

We crossed the bridge to the mainland and rode quickly to the little town of Cosham. There one road continued north, past Hoyland and on to London, while another forked left to Portchester Castle. We halted. Barak said quietly, ‘Let's ride on, get home.'

‘No. I am still going to Portchester. An hour to ride there and back, an hour or two at the castle. I'll try and catch you up tomorrow.'

‘I'm still not coming.'

‘I understand. You think me mad, I know.' I tried to smile.

‘I'll wait for you at the inn over there till three,' he said. ‘But if you're not back by then I'll ride on.'

‘Agreed.'

So I turned and rode west. I passed along the coastline for a couple of miles; slowly the high white Roman walls of Portchester Castle, set on a peninsula protruding into the head of Portsmouth Haven, became clearer. Twice I passed a company of soldiers heading in the opposite direction.

The castle, an almost perfect square of high stone walls surrounded by a moat, enclosed a site of several acres. In the centre of the walls was a large gatehouse, and at the western end an enormous square keep, immensely solid. A group of soldiers in half-armour, with swords and halberds, stood guard before the drawbridge in front of the gatehouse. I handed the letter I had written to Warner the previous night asking for an interview, to a young officer, a petty-captain I guessed. He looked at me interrogatively. ‘I understand the Queen and her household have remained at Portchester,' I said.

‘They're here.'

‘I have been engaged on a piece of legal business for the Queen at Portsmouth. There has been a development and I need to speak with Master Warner.'

The captain stared. ‘I'd have thought they'd be too busy there to bother with lawyer's quibbles.'

‘This matter started before the present crisis. I think Master Warner will want to see me.'

He grunted disapproval, but beckoned a young soldier across, gave him the letter, and told him to find Warner. The soldier ran off to the drawbridge.

‘Did you see his majesty enter Portsmouth?' the petty-captain asked.

‘He arrived just before I left. He had a fine welcome.'

He jerked his head back at the castle behind him. ‘We may have to defend this place from the French. They say there's thirty thousand of them.' He laughed bitterly, muttered ‘Lawyer's quibbles,' again. We waited in silence, the hot sun beating down on us, till the young soldier ran back. ‘He'll see the lawyer, sir,' he told the officer.