I joined him at the window. Outside a large group of people, some carrying torches, had gathered round a pile of brushwood in the middle of the street. As we watched the little crowd parted, shouting and cheering, to allow four men through. They carried the straw effigy of a man, dressed in a ragged smock with the fleur-de-lys of France painted prominently on the front.
The crowd began to shout: 'Burn the Frenchy! Kill the dog!'
The mannikin was laid on the brushwood, which was set on fire. The figure was outlined in flames for a moment, then quickly consumed. 'That's what invaders get!' someone shouted, to loud cheers.
'We'll neuter the French King's gentlemen cocks for him!'
I turned away with a grunt. 'They might pause to ask who started all this. The King, taking on a far larger power.'
'That's the problem,' Barak said, 'you set something in motion and before you know where you are it's all out of control.' He looked at me meaningfully. I did not reply, but lay down again on the bed, watching the reflected flames dancing redly on the ceiling.
NEXT MORNING we rose early for the long ride back to Hoyland. The weather was clear and bright again. Outside the ashes of the fire had been cleared away, and market stalls with bright awnings were being set up along the street. We had breakfasted and were gathering our things together when old Mistress Bell knocked and entered, looking flustered. 'Someone has called to see you, sir,' she said.
'Who is it?'
She took a deep breath. 'Mistress Beatrice West, widow of Sir John West and owner of Carlen Hall.'
Barak and I exchanged glances. 'Where is she?' I asked.
'I have shown her to my poor parlour,' Mistress Bell continued in a rush of words. 'She has heard about the body in the mill pond. Please sir, do not say anything to upset her. Many of my customers are her tenants. She is a proud woman, easily offended.'
'I have no wish to make an enemy of her.'
'Trouble,' Mistress Bell said with sudden bitterness. 'Each time you come, trouble.' She went out, closing the door with a snap. Barak raised his eyebrows.
'Wait here,' I said.
MISTRESS BELL'S parlour was a small room containing a scratched table, a couple of stools and an ancient wall painting of a hunting scene, the paint cracked and faded. A tall, strongly built woman in her sixties stood by the table. She wore a wide, high-collared blue dress, and an old-fashioned box hood framing a clever, haughty face with small, keen, deep-set eyes that reminded me of her son.
'Mistress Beatrice West?' I asked.
She nodded her head in curt acknowledgement, then said abruptly, 'Are you the lawyer who found that body in the pond? At the Fettiplace foundry?'
'I am, madam. Matthew Shardlake, Serjeant-at-Law, of London.' I bowed deeply.
Mistress West nodded, her pose becoming slightly less stiff. 'At least I am dealing with someone of rank.' She waved a manicured hand at the stools. 'Please, sit if you wish. Perhaps you find standing for long uncomfortable. I will not sit on a stool, I am used to chairs, but I see this is a poor place.'
The indirect reference to my condition made me bridle slightly. But I realized that temperate words and a modest manner were the best way of dealing with this woman. 'I am quite happy to stand, thank you.'
She continued staring at me with those sharp little brown eyes. Despite her haughty demeanour I read anxiety there. She spoke abruptly: 'I came to Rolfswood last night, to visit the market. I am staying with friends. I had scarce arrived when I received a letter from that boor Humphrey Buttress. He told me the body of Master Fettiplace, that we all thought burned in his foundry nineteen years ago, had been found in the pond. By you.'
'That is correct, madam.'
'He said he required as magistrate—required, oh, he loves that word—to know the whereabouts of my son, given his former—connection—to Mistress Ellen Fettiplace. Well, that is easily enough answered. Philip is at Portsmouth, preparing to defend England. Buttress said you wanted him questioned.' She paused for breath. 'Well, sir, what have you to say? What is this old matter to do with you?'
I answered quietly, 'I can tell you only what I told Master Buttress. I have been making enquiries on behalf of a client about the Fettiplace family. I visited the foundry with old Goodman Harrydance yesterday, and we found the body. I am sorry to cause inconvenience, but clearly the discovery in the pond must be investigated. Your son is one of those who must be part of that. I only wish to see justice done, to see the relevant people are called.'
'Why are you in Sussex?'
'A legal case in Hampshire. I am staying at a house some miles north of Portsmouth. Hoyland Priory. I am engaged on a Court of Wards matter there.' I judged it best not to tell this woman my normal work was at the Court of Requests. Her face relaxed a little. I said, 'Master Seckford told me your son came out on the day of the fire to ask Master Fettiplace's approval of a marriage to his daughter.'
'That girl,' Mistress West said bitterly. 'She was below our station, Philip should never have involved himself with her. She went mad after the fire—she was taken away. Will you have an official part in the investigation?' she asked suddenly.
'I am involved now, as a finder of the body.' I looked closely at Mistress West. Was it her who had arranged Ellen's abduction?
Suddenly she seemed to wilt. 'We thought it was all done, but now—a murder, and my son to be questioned.'
'I want to see the truth found, madam. That is all.'
She stared at me, long and hard, then seemed to reach a decision. 'Then there is something I should tell you. It must come out, and I would rather tell you first than Buttress. You may understand, Master Shardlake, that in small towns there is often rivalry between those of good old birth like my family and men like him.'
'Having met him, I can imagine he is—difficult.'
'If I were to tell you something that showed my son did not meet Mistress Fettiplace on that day, perhaps Philip would not have to be called to the inquest.'
'Possibly.'
'He would not want to reveal it, even now. But I must do what I can to protect him. He should have told them at the first inquest. Though we all thought it was an accident then.' She began wringing her hands and I realized she was a frightened woman, on the edge of panic. She looked at me again, then composed herself and began speaking rapidly.
'Nineteen years ago, my son was twenty-two. For his age he had risen high. Two years before, my late husband and I had found him a place in the King's household, working for his majesty's Master of Hunt. We were well pleased.' Her face relaxed into a fond smile for a moment. 'You should have seen Philip then. A fine, strong boy, carefree, devoted to manly pursuits. Those were the last of the old days, sir, when everything in England seemed settled and secure. The King had been married to Queen Catherine of Aragon near twenty years, happily we thought, though they had no son. We did not know he had already set his eyes on Anne Boleyn.'
'I remember it well.'
'My son, as I said, helped organize the King's hunts. I am told he can scarce walk now, but in those days he was always hunting. Philip caught the King's eye, he favoured young men who shared his taste for sport. By 1526 he was in the outer circle of the King's boon companions and sometimes he would be asked to join the King at games of dice and cards.' She spoke with pride, then added in a heavier tone, 'And sometimes, the King would use Philip as a messenger, to deliver private letters. He had come to trust my son greatly. Letters to—' Mistress West set her lips in a tight line—'to Anne Boleyn.'
I remembered Anne Boleyn's execution that Lord Cromwell had insisted I attend; her head flying out when severed from the body, the jets of blood. I closed my eyes for a moment. Strange I had not recalled that when I saw Lady Elizabeth, her daughter.
Mistress West sighed. 'It does not matter now, Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn are both long dead, but by heaven it mattered then. In 1526 no one outside the court had even heard of Anne Boleyn. The King had had mistresses before, but Anne Boleyn insisted he divorce Catherine and marry her. You know the story. She promised him a son.' Mistress West laughed bitterly. I thought, but she only gave him Elizabeth. I remembered the little girl
