Heartstone (86 page)

H
OBBEY AND
I ascended the stairs. He walked slowly, clinging to the banister. 'Before we see David, Master Shardlake, there is something I wanted to ask you.'

'Yes?'

'I hope you are right and that Emma may come to you in London. But if she is exposed, do you think she will tell - ' he winced, gripping the banister - 'that David killed his mother? I believe she guessed it was him.' He stared at me intently. His first concern was still his son.

'I doubt it. From what she said in Portsmouth she feels a deep guilt for what she did to David.'

Hobbey took another step, then stopped again and looked me in the face. 'What was I doing?' he asked. 'What were we thinking of, all those years?'

'I do not believe any of you were thinking clearly, not for a long time. You were all too afraid. Except for Fulstowe, who was out to get what he could from the situation.'

Hobbey looked around the great hall, the culmination of all his ambition. 'And I was blind to how my son was becoming - deranged. I blame myself for what he did.' He sighed. 'Well, it is all over now. Dyrick tries to talk me out of leaving, but my mind is made up.'

He led me into David's room. It had a good four-poster bed, chairs and cushions, and an old tapestry on the wall showing a battle from Roman times. No books, unlike Hugh's room. David lay in the bed; he had been looking up at the ceiling, but when we came in he struggled to rise. Hobbey raised a hand.

'No, no. You will pull at your bandages.'

David fixed me with a frightened gaze. Lying there he looked like a trapped, terrified little boy, the stubble on his cheeks making him seem all the more pathetic.

'How do you fare, David?' I asked gently.

'It hurts,' he said. 'The doctor stitched me up.'

Hobbey said, 'David was brave. He did not cry out once, did you, my son?' He took a deep breath. 'Master Shardlake has come to tell you he will say nothing of what happened to your mother.'

Tears welled up in David's eyes. 'I think I was mad, sir. I shot at you and then I killed my poor mother. I seemed able to think of nothing else but shooting at people, all the time. I had to keep our secret, keep Emma with us. Even if I had to kill - ' He had been talking fast, almost gabbling, but suddenly he paused, looked at me, and asked in a passionate voice, 'Sir, can God ever forgive such a sin as I have committed?'

I looked into his wild eyes. 'I am no cleric, David, but if someone truly repents, they say He will forgive even the greatest sin.'

'I pray ceaselessly, sir,' he said through his tears. 'For forgiveness and for my mother.'

'That is all you can do, David,' his father said, going forward and taking his hand. His words reminded me of what Catherine Parr had said to me a few hours ago. I looked down at the floor.

'What news of Emma?' David asked tremulously.

'Master Shardlake saw her in Portsmouth. She is truly sorry for what she did to you.'

'I deserved it,' David said. He looked at me, and I saw that even now he loved her. I shuddered to think of what had gone on in his mind these last six years, warping it utterly. 'Where is she now?' he asked.

Hobbey hesitated. 'We are not sure. But we believe her safe.'

'Will I see her again?'

'I do not think so, David. If she goes to anyone it will be Master Shardlake.'

David looked at me again. 'I loved her, you see, I loved Emma all these years.' I nodded. 'I never thought of her as Hugh. That was why, when I feared we might actually be exposed, I think - I think the devil took hold of me. But I loved her. I loved my poor mother too, I realized as soon as I had - I had killed her.' He burst out sobbing, tears streaming down his face.

Hobbey hung his head.

'I wonder - ' I said. Hobbey looked at me. I hesitated, for I had brought enough nightmare cases to Guy. Yet he thrived on the most difficult patients, perhaps he even needed something like this now. And it would be a way for me to keep an eye on the Hobbeys. I said, 'If you come to London, I know a physician, a good man. He may be able to help David.'

Hobbey said eagerly, 'Might he help him walk again?'

'I cannot promise that.'

'I do not deserve to,' David burst out passionately.

I said, though again only to comfort the poor creature, 'Leave that to God.'

A
N HOUR LATER
Barak and I rode out of Hoyland Priory for the last time and turned on to the London road. Before I left I had done one more thing; I went into Emma's room and took the little cross from where it still lay in the drawer by the bed.

'Home,' Barak said. 'Home at last. To see my son born.' I looked at him, noticing the paunch he had begun to carry in London was gone. He followed my gaze. 'Soon have the weight back on,' he said cheerfully. 'Rest and some good beer, that'll do it.'

Yet there was a delay. We passed the turning for Rolfswood, and I had looked up the road to Sussex between the steep banks. Then a couple of miles further on we found three soldiers standing across the road, blocking it. They told us that up the road a bridge had collapsed and was being repaired. It was late in the afternoon, and the soldiers told us we would have to find somewhere to stay for the night.

Barak was angry. 'Isn't there any way we can get past? There's only two of us and my wife in London has a baby due soon.'

'Nobody goes across till the repair's completed. There are soldiers and supplies waiting to go to Portsmouth.'

Barak looked ready to argue, but I said, 'Let us make a virtue of necessity, Jack, and go to Rolfswood.'

He turned away from the soldier's stare. 'Come on, then,' he muttered, waiting till we were out of their hearing to follow the comment with a string of oaths.

R
OLFSWOOD
was quiet again, peaceful in the summer evening. We passed Buttress's house. 'What will you do about that rogue?' Barak asked.

'As with Priddis, I doubt there is anything I can do. If I try to raise the issue of whether he and Priddis got together to forge Ellen's signature, it just opens up the story of the rape. And I do not think that would be in anyone's interest now.'

'At least Rich has had his wings clipped.'

'A little. And we can leave West's mother to believe her son died a hero.'

'I wonder what the inquest on poor Master Fettiplace will decide.'

'Murder by persons unknown, I am sure. Let us leave it there.'

We rode on to the inn, where we found a place for the night. We ate dinner, then I left Barak alone, for I had a visit to make.

T
HE VICARAGE
looked as tumbledown as ever, the gnarled cherry tree in full leaf in the unkempt garden. Reverend Seckford answered my knock. He looked sober for once, though there was a beer stain on his surplice. He invited me in. I told him the whole story, about West and Ellen, and David and Emma, and the men I had seen die on the
Mary Rose
.

It was dark by the time I concluded; Seckford had lit candles in his parlour. He had prevailed on me to share a jug of beer; I had drunk one mug to his three. When I finished the story he sat with bowed head, plump hands trembling on his lap. Then he looked up. 'This King has had three wars against France, and lost all of them. All for his own glory. You know, the Church has a doctrine called just war. St Thomas Aquinas wrote on it, though the doctrine is much older than that. A State going to war must have tried all other options, must have justice on its side and have an honourable purpose in mind. None of Henry's wars has been like that. Though he claims to be God's representative on earth.'

'Which wars do have justice on their side, Master Seckford?'

He raised his cup to his lips with a shaking hand. 'Some, perhaps. But not this King's.' He spoke with sudden anger. 'Blame him, blame him for the men dead on the
Mary Rose
, the soldiers and the women and children in France. And even for Philip West, may his sins be forgiven.'

'I keep seeing my friend's face, all the other soldiers, I see them crashing into the water. Over and again.' I smiled wryly. 'A woman I admire greatly tells me to seek refuge in prayer.'

'You should.'

I burst out, 'How can God allow such things to happen? How? I think of that ship going down, of the savagery Reformers and Catholics show to each other, of Emma and Hobbey and David and sometimes - forgive me, but sometimes I think God only laughs at us.'

Seckford put down his cup. 'I understand how people can think like that nowadays. And if God were all powerful, perhaps you would be right. But the Gospels tell a different story. The Cross, you see. For myself I think Christ suffers with us.'

'What is the good of that, Reverend Seckford? How does that help?'

'The age of miracles is long gone. See - ' He picked up his mug again. 'He cannot even stop me drinking, though I would like Him to.'

'Why?' I asked. 'Why can he not?'

He smiled sadly. 'I do not know, I am only a drunken old country priest. But I have faith. It is the only way to live with the mystery.'

I shook my head. 'Faith is beyond me now.'

Seckford smiled. 'You do not like mysteries, do you? You like to solve them. As you have solved the mystery of Ellen.'

'At such cost.'

He looked at me. 'You will take care of her?'

'I will do all I can.'

'And that poor girl Emma, and the wreckage of that Hobbey family?'

'So far as possible.'

Seckford leaned forward, placed his trembling hand on my arm. ' "Faith, Hope and Charity," ' he quoted. ' "But the greatest of these is charity." '

'That is an old-fashioned doctrine nowadays.'

'The best, nonetheless, Master Shardlake. Remember me to Ellen when you see her. And tonight I shall light candles in the church for your friend George Leacon and his men. I shall make it a blaze of colour for them.'

He laid a shaking hand on mine. But I found it poor comfort.

Chapter Fifty-one

B
ARAK AND
I
ARRIVED
back in London five days later, on the afternoon of the 27th of July. We had been away almost a month. We had returned the horses at Kingston and made the final leg of the journey, like the first, by boat. Even the tidal swell of the river made me feel uneasy, though I tried to hide it.

We walked up through Temple Gardens. Dyrick would be back in his chambers soon; if Emma appeared I would have to liaise with him to get Hugh's - as the court supposed Emma to be - wardship transferred to me. But if she were never seen again I could do nothing.

Fleet Street and the Strand presented the same aspect as when we had left; groups of corner boys in blue robes boldly scrutinizing passers-by; posters pasted to the buildings warning of French spies. The boatman had told us more soldiers were being sent south; the French were still in the Solent.

Barak invited me to come to his house to see Tamasin, but I knew he would rather greet her alone so I said I must go to my chambers. We parted at the bottom of Chancery Lane. He promised to be in chambers the following morning. I walked on, turning in at Lincoln's Inn gate. I wanted to see how things fared there, and also to consider how I would tackle Coldiron when I returned home.