There was a cold wind in the churchyard. The last leaves had fallen and it sent them whirling and whispering around my feet. I pulled my coat tighter round me as I walked towards the church. Winter was come.
I stopped at Joan’s grave and placed a last rose from my garden before the headstone. I stood a moment, wondering what she would have thought of the events in my household that summer. I still had no steward; I had interviewed several men, but none had the sensitivity I felt was needed to deal with Josephine. She was much better, but any mistakes she made, any little criticism, set her to dithering clumsiness. Occasionally when I came home from Lincoln’s Inn I would see her looking out on the street, with a strange, intent expression. I guessed she was looking out for Coldiron, with what mixture of fear and desire for the security of his presence I did not know.
I had returned to work, grateful now for the routine. But sometimes when I was tired I still had that dreadful sensation of the ground slipping and sliding beneath my feet. I went on to my friend Roger’s grave; the autumn rains had brought dirty streaks to the marble. I thought, I must send one of the boys to clean it. Simon would be leaving my house soon, as apprentice to a mercer; I had arranged it with Alderman Carver. I remembered how after Roger’s death I had wanted to marry his widow. I had heard nothing from Dorothy in recent months. Nor had I heard from the Queen, nor Warner; but I had not expected to.
There was a bench outside the old church, and I cleared some leaves from it and sat down. I looked towards the churchyard wall, remembering the muster in Lincoln’s Inn Fields back in June. The French had given up their plan to invade England now, their fleet had returned to France, where the siege of Boulogne dragged on; English troops inside the city, the French army outside. All a useless waste of time. Rumour said that the King had, at long last, realized his enterprise against France had failed utterly, and there would be a peace treaty in the New Year.
I looked towards the churchyard gate. This time I had not come here to ponder, but for a meeting, one best held away from the nosiness of Lincoln’s Inn. As I watched, the gate opened and a tall, slim figure in a heavy coat and dark cap walked towards me. Emma Curteys still carried herself like a boy, dressed as a boy, looked like a boy. I invited her to sit beside me. She sat quietly for a moment, then turned and looked at me enquiringly. Her scarred face was pale.
‘It is done,’ I said.
‘Were there any difficulties?’
‘None, as everyone was agreed. Dyrick was there to confirm Hobbey’s approval of the sale of the wardship. And Edward Priddis to approve the valuation. He is Hampshire feodary since his father died in September. Sir William Paulet raised no queries, so it is done.’ I smiled uneasily. ‘You are my ward now or, rather, Hugh Curteys is.’
She said quietly, ‘Thank you.’
Emma had appeared in my chambers back in August. It was as well I was there, for Skelly would have refused entry to the thin, dirty boy who came asking for me. Emma told me she had not wanted to come, but a month penniless on the road, stealing from farmhouses, had worn her down and overcome her pride. I had given her money and found her a room in the city until the application to transfer the wardship could be heard.
I spoke hesitantly. ‘Hobbey was there too, in case he was needed. Hoyland Priory has been sold to Sir Luke Corembeck.’
Emma looked at me. ‘How is David?’
‘He can walk a little now. But he has had more attacks of the falling sickness. Hobbey will not let him out of his sight; my physician friend thinks he protects him too much.’ I looked at her. ‘He is still sick with guilt and shame.’
‘Master Hobbey always had to have people to be in charge of.’ Emma paused, then looked at me and said with sudden passion, ‘Yet I think constantly of David, what I did. I would put it right if I could.’
‘I know.’
‘And I think of the soldiers – I dream of them falling into the water, the screams of those trapped men.’
‘So do I.’ I had never told Emma that but for Rich’s machinations it would have been a different company of soldiers on the Mary Rose. I would not have her share my unending sense of guilt. I remembered visiting Leacon’s parents in Kent, to tell them their son was dead, and offer what financial help I could. The two old people had been lost, broken.
Emma said, ‘Thank you, Master Shardlake. I am sorry I did not trust you from the beginning. I did not think anyone could get me away from Hoyland and the Hobbeys, and I had stopped wanting to leave.’
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and looked at her. ‘Why did you let them do it to you, Emma?’