Heartstone



THE 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


BARAK 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.

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