With a click of pity, Master Makejoy stood and brought me to my feet. Unpracticed, awkward, he folded his arms around me, pinning my head against his bony shoulder. As the rain beat against the house, the invisible waves beyond surged and hungered, and the heavy clouds slumped above us, God help me, I cried my own torrent—not so much for Father, but for what I knew in my heart his loss augured.
Two
Elmham Lenn
The day after Michaelmas
The year of Our Lord 1405 in the sixth year of the reign of Henry IV
Sorrow, guilt, and, if I searched deeply enough, a sense of relief warred within me in equal measure, prolonging my weeping until Hiske’s next words abruptly checked it.
“Tell her the rest, Master Makejoy.”
The rest? What else was there?
A handkerchief was thrust into my palm. Master Makejoy’s arms withdrew and, once more, I sank onto the stool.
There was the brush of material against my thigh. Cousin Hiske pressed closer to me. “She must needs know. After all, it changes everything.”
As if Father’s death didn’t . . . I raised my swollen face.
“Despite his lordship’s instructions, it’s too soon,” said Master Makejoy, examining the lip of the beaker before downing a good swallow. “Let the poor girl, the family, mourn. They need time.”
“That’s a luxury they can ill afford,” said Hiske, gesturing at the parchment. “Mourning isn’t helped by time or tears, Master Makejoy. It only makes sorrow grow. Grief needs to be checked as soon as possible lest we overindulge in it.” She sniffed. I twisted and saw in her eyes a peculiar glimmer. “Anyway,” she said, flashing her teeth in what passed for a smile, “there are decisions to be made. You must not be seen to thwart his lordship’s intentions.”
Impatient to be away from them, to get to the twins, I blew my nose in a most unladylike manner. “Too soon or not”—I struggled not to glare at Hiske—“I’d best know what is being referred to, good sir. What does his lordship want?”
Master Makejoy sighed. His eyes lingered on me before he glanced at Hiske and shrugged.
“Very well.” Dragging the candle closer, he rolled out another, larger piece of parchment. This was not offered to me. It looked like a deed. Clearing his throat, Master Makejoy used the beaker to hold the parchment flat. “Lord Rainford asked that”—he gave Hiske a reproachful glance—“in due time, I draw your attention to this. I’m not sure how much you know of your father’s affairs, Mistress Sheldrake, but over the years, in order to consolidate his business, Master Sheldrake entered into an arrangement with his lordship, one that saw Lord Rainford underwrite all your father’s ventures.”
“I was aware of that.” Not because of Father, but because of Adam Barfoot and Tobias. Master Makejoy didn’t need to know that detail.
Master Makejoy arched a bushy brow. “Really?” He cleared his throat again. “Well, what you may not know is that upon your father’s death, any business dealings with Lord Rainford are revoked.”
Frowning, I stared at Master Makejoy. “Revoked? What does that mean?”
Master Makejoy gave me the sort of indulgent smile one does a very young child. “Dear Mistress Sheldrake. Your father’s death, never mind the sinking of the Cathaline, means that any agreements your father had are now invalid; they no longer apply.” His tone changed, became businesslike. “You can thank our Maker for Lord Rainford’s generosity in appointing Tobias his youngest son’s squire. Thus his future is assured. One less Sheldrake to worry about. But as for everything else . . . well . . .” He waved a hand in the air.
“Well, what? To what agreements are you referring?” Darkness made a slow passage from the back of my mind, tarnishing my ability to think clearly.
Master Makejoy leaned back in Father’s chair and laced his hands together, the index fingers forming a pyramid that pointed toward the ceiling. “Quite simply, your father’s interests in the fleet, his dealings with the Hanseatic League, any merchandise awaiting export and import. Concern for all this now passes back to Lord Rainford, who, of course, will find someone else to manage his mercantile affairs. The good news is that this includes any debts, and believe me when I tell you, the sinking of the Cathaline will incur a great many. The business agreement struck between your father and Lord Rainford spares you this at least—these debts are not your responsibility. The bad news is”—he hesitated—“while you don’t have any debts to discharge, you no longer possess any assets either.”
“None?” I forced my hands still. “But . . . I don’t understand.”
“It’s very simple, Mistress Sheldrake. You have . . . nothing.”
I stared at Master Makejoy, aghast. “But how is this possible? Father is . . . was a man of means. We have wanted for very little.” I looked to Hiske for confirmation. She regarded me steadily, no inkling of her thoughts evident in those cold eyes. “The shop,” I continued, gesturing toward it. “We have a business. Yesterday, there were customers. And the warehouse”—my arm indicated the opposite end of the house, where the goods Father traded, had traded, were stored—“there are bales of fabric, wool, spices, some wine—not much, I know, we were awaiting Father’s return to replenish . . . but surely they’re ours to sell and—”
“Not anymore, I’m afraid. Neither are”—he leaned over and referred to the parchment, his finger trailing down the page—“the control of the remaining ships for which your father bore responsibility. Including the Cathaline, there were four in total. There are also the lands abutting this house, which incorporates three holdings, the orchard, and other interests. These were all managed by your father on his lordship’s behalf, and for this, your father was paid a fee. Naturally, they now return to the original owner: Lord Rainford.” Master Makejoy frowned and his eyes drifted back to the page. “Once they’re sold or leased again, there’s always the possibility they’ll not come anywhere near compensating Lord Rainford for his original investment.” He wasn’t addressing me but indulging in some imminent conversation with his employer.
“But I always thought that his lordship and Father were business partners. What you’re saying implies that their relationship was unequal, that Father was akin to a . . . bondsman . . .” My voice petered out.
“Indeed, that’s an apt analogy, Mistress Sheldrake. The original contract was signed over sixteen years ago, and both your father and Lord Rainford have enjoyed many successes, have profited in all sorts of ways from their joint ventures.” Master Makejoy pushed back the chair and rose, his fingers dusting the metal astrolabe sitting on the desk. “But this doesn’t concern you any longer and, in legal terms, a contract is a contract.” Reaching over the desk, he opened the shutters, allowing air and light to spill into the room. From where I was sitting, I could see a portion of the shop and, past the large, battered sea chest that I knew contained spools of fabric and lace from Venice and Bruges, as well as dyed rolls of wool from Florence, the outside window admitted views of the street. It was still early, the rain falling more heavily now, and, with the shutters open, I could hear the howl of the wind.