Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (11 page)

Thursday, December 26

Clarenceux looked up at the portrait above the fireplace in Sir William’s writing room. It showed a proud man in his prime.
Sir
Wyllyam
Sessylle, aetatis suae xxxii
was painted in gold in a corner. He reflected that there was something slightly naive about the face. This was the most intelligent man in the realm, or so many said, and yet this face lacked something that the older Sir William possessed. It took Clarenceux several minutes to work out what it was. Humility.

He had arrived promptly at the appointed hour, three o’clock, full of apprehension, and had been told to wait in an antechamber not far from the great hall. After about a quarter of an hour, he had been shown into this room. There was a fire on the hearth, which must have been burning awhile, as it was beautifully warm. A pewter flask of wine was on the table to one side, and two glass goblets of Venetian design. But the room was dominated by several large book presses, each taller than he was and containing two to three hundred volumes, with carved scrollwork at the top. They seemed to be mostly English and Italian humanist works, and several Italian volumes on architecture and design. He lifted down one leather-bound volume and read
An
Abridgement
of
the
Chronicles
of
England, gathered by Richard Grafton, citizen of London. Anno Do. 1563
. He knew Richard Grafton well enough to know that abridging chronicles was his forte. Grafton believed that copying other people’s historical work was not immoral—for how could anyone have a monopoly on the truth? Clarenceux also knew John Stow, who was enraged by the copying that Grafton had already done of his work and bitterly resentful that Grafton planned to produce another volume of “his” chronicles, stolen entirely from him, Stow. Clarenceux’s sympathies lay with John Stow; the normal state of the past was for it to be lost. If, then, a man preserved something of it, and made something new out of it, it was not free to be stolen.

He put Grafton’s book back on the shelf and pulled down the adjacent volume, a slightly older
Bible
in
Englysh
. There was no name on the cover but he knew that this too was Richard Grafton’s work, as a printer, rather than a historian. He shook his head; Grafton claiming other chroniclers’ work as his own was akin to him claiming the work of ancient writers as his own too—even the writers of the Bible. He was not at liberty to claim the work of the Church Fathers as his own, so why should he be allowed to claim that of his contemporaries? He put the Bible back also. Still Sir William had not come, so he pulled down the next volume. This was
The
Castel
of
Memorie: wherein is conteyned the restoring, augmenting, and conseruing of the Memorye and Remembraunce, with the safest remedies and best preceptes therevnto in any wise apperteyning: Made by Gulielmus Gratarolus Bergomaris Doctor of Artes and Physicke. Englished by Willyam Fulwod
. Clarenceux was impressed: Grafton, Grafton, Gratarolus—Sir William had arranged his books in alphabetical order of printer or author. Curious, he started reading the first section of Gratarolus:

Memorie is by the whiche the mynde repeateth things that are past. Or it is a stedfast perceivyng in the mynde of the disposition of things and words. Or (as Aristotle supposeth) it is an imagination, that remaineth of such things as the sense had conceyved. Also by the sentence of Plato, Memorie is a sense & a safetie (or a safe reteining of things): for the soule obtaineth by the office of the senses whatsoever things chaunce under the sense, and therefore it is the beginnings of an opinion. But by the mynde itselfe it considereth intellectuall thynges, & so is it become intelligence.

He put his finger on the words “Aristotle supposeth” and read that sentence again. “Memory is an imagination.”
If
that
is
so
, he reasoned,
then
all
recorded
memory
is
merely
fable. And the document I guard, which speaks of the marriage of Lord Percy to Anne Boleyn, is also nothing more than fable. The illegitimacy of the queen herself thus becomes untrue.

But
the
truth
is
the
truth, and always will be; so the truth of the past is unchangeable even if God alone knows it.

The door to the library opened and Sir William entered hastily in his robe. He was much older now than his picture, only two years younger than Clarenceux. His beard was heavily gray, with just a little reddish-brown in the mustache. His graying hair was concealed beneath a black cap and his doublet was made of black velvet with gold trimmings and pearl buttons. The effect of the black robe over the whole black and jeweled ensemble was strikingly rich and dramatic.

“I am sorry to keep you waiting, William,” said Cecil. “I was with her majesty this morning—and she thrust a bundle of petitions at me and asked me to look through them. I tried to give my apologies but, well, you know what she is like in a bad mood. Looking through them took me an hour—thus detaining me longer than I expected at the palace.”

Clarenceux put the book back in the press. “Does your wife ever see you these days?”

Cecil smiled at Clarenceux. “It is the secret of our beautiful marriage,” he said as he took off the robe and placed it on a bench by the wall. “I am never a burden on my wife. Wine?”

Clarenceux shook his head. “No. It has lost its savor somewhat these days. Inebriation makes me feel vulnerable.”

“Then only drink a little,” said Cecil as he poured himself a glass. “That at least should embolden you against your enemies.”

“I have too many enemies.”

Cecil nodded. “I hear you attend sword practice these days at the Belle Savage?”

“Who told you?”

“Walsingham, of course.” Cecil sipped his wine. “I always thought you were too proud to admit that you might need lessons in anything, swordsmanship especially. Scholars who can defend themselves with real weapons as well as wit are few on the ground. Most think wit is enough and only find out too late that it has its limitations.”

“Why did you summon me?”

“I did not summon you. I invited you. And you know why. I must have the Percy-Boleyn marriage agreement. The time has come for you to hand it over to me.”

“Last year you were happy for me to keep hold of it. The year before that too. What has changed?”

“The Scottish marriage. Charles James Stuart. The queen herself admits that she cannot pretend anyone has a better claim—at least, not until she herself has children. It is ironic: her majesty has forbidden anyone from discussing the succession and yet precisely for that reason we do little else but discuss it. Walsingham thinks she will never marry because she sees the monarchy as indivisible from herself, alone and ethereal, like an angel of England. I disagree. I think she will marry—not for the sake of company nor even for the sake of her father’s dynasty but for the sake of religion. If she does not, the Catholic boy in Scotland will inherit the throne of England.”

Clarenceux disagreed. “If you have not persuaded her to share power with a husband yet, you never will.”

“But the Catholics have a champion in that boy, and he has a powerful protector in his father. Remove Elizabeth now and a Catholic will inherit—there is no doubt about that. The document you hold used to be just a curiosity—something that your London revolutionary friends toyed with. Certainly it was dangerous; it inspired their imaginations and made them feel important. They could have done much damage with it. But they were never sufficiently well connected to wield its true power. In Lord Henry Stewart’s hands, however, it becomes the means to persuade foreign powers to assist the Catholic cause. That is why I must ask you to surrender it.”

Clarenceux looked at the fire. It was burning low. He walked to it, crouched down, and picked up a log from the pile. He tossed it onto the flames. He did the same with a second log. Still looking at the flames, he replied, “I cannot do that.”

Cecil lifted his wine glass to his mouth. “I trust you will explain.”

Clarenceux remained looking into the flames. “I have had a long time to think about that document and I have come to realize certain things. If we were to have an open meeting—in the Guildhall, for instance—and if at that meeting I was formally invited to hand the marriage agreement over to her majesty, or you, or anyone, and did so in the presence of the leading Catholics of the realm, then I would gladly do so. But you cannot allow that to happen. If you, the queen’s secretary, were even to acknowledge that that document exists—that it
ever
existed
—you would start a civil war. Its very creation renders the legitimate line of old King Henry extinct and Mary of Scotland the rightful queen of England.”

“Something could be arranged. A private gathering, perhaps.”

Clarenceux put another log on the fire, and then a fourth. “No. Not even Elizabeth herself would be able to assure me that I will be allowed publicly to hand over that document. It is no good the handover taking place in secret, for the followers of the old religion will be left in the dark as to where it is, and never have anything official to show it existed. For it is knowledge
of
the
truth
that you must deny. In some respects Aristotle was wrong to say that memory is imagination; our consciences are not the same as our imaginations. But in the matter of politics he was quite right. You can claim that we do not remember the circumstances of our queen’s parentage; we merely imagine it. Political leaders have a tendency to turn memory into imagination.”

Cecil approached the fireplace and crouched down beside Clarenceux. “I do not disagree,” he said. “Only I word it differently. ‘Politics is the art of purposeful lies’ is how I put it. But that is the point. They are
purposeful
. Anyone can tell the truth. If governing the country was just a matter of telling the truth, then we would have no secrets. We could leave it to a machine—like a water wheel or a mill. Telling the right lie at the right time, or concealing a particular truth at the most necessary moment—these are things that a machine cannot do.”

“You can tell the truth if you believe the truth is God’s will.”

Cecil picked up a stick and adjusted the position of one of the burning logs, then threw the stick onto the fire. “William, you have to choose sides, you know. You cannot remain alone, defiant of the State and in defiance of the Catholic cause. If you choose to follow your faith, you will become a traitor.”

Clarenceux looked into the flames, which were now rising higher. “I am not alone. I have God on my side. I do not believe that God is on your side simply because Elizabeth is queen now. Nor do I believe that God is on the side of those who would overthrow her. But I do believe He is on my side, for I follow His direction. So, Sir William, while you think I am outnumbered, the truth is that you are.”

He got up and walked away from the fire. Cecil slowly also got to his feet.

“You understand how dangerous your way is. You know there can be no return, no path of redemption. You and your family will always be watched. Pursued. Threatened.”

“Why has Walsingham increased the guard on my house?”

“You’ll have to ask him. I know he has you watched. In doing so he is only following my orders. It is for your safety.”

“And the safety of the document?”

Cecil said nothing.

Clarenceux poured himself a glass of wine. “I’ll drink this because I am in good company,” he said, raising the glass. “I know you are a remarkable man, Sir William. One day the chronicles will be filled with descriptions of your deeds. But I cannot give you the marriage agreement. It is not that I do not trust you—it is that I know you will prove wholly loyal to her majesty, not me. One day the time will come for me either to use it or destroy it.” He drank again. “And maybe I will destroy myself too. In this I will perform the will of God, not the will of her majesty.”

“Elizabeth does not even know the document exists,” muttered Cecil. He walked over to the bottle of wine and poured another glass. “William, do not sacrifice your life.”

“The thought is not entirely unwelcome, if thereby I can end my worries, frustrate the rebels, and guarantee my family’s safety.”

“You love them that much?”

“Just as you do your family.”

“True.” Cecil drank. “However, I would feel an obligation to put her majesty and the State before my family. God knows I love my wife and children, but I know my capacity for loyalty is greater than my capacity for love. I pray that I am never again forced to choose.”

“Never again?” asked Clarenceux.

Cecil walked over to the door. He opened it and called out, “Mr. Tasker, more wine up here, please—a quart of the Rumney, if there is any left.” He shut the door again. “We will wait a moment; I do not wish to be overheard.” Then he added, as if a little inebriated, “Do you like the wine?”

Clarenceux nodded. “It is strong. Strong is good.” He lifted his glass—but he did not drink, not this time.

When Mr. Tasker had supplied the flask and left, and glasses had been refilled, Sir William Cecil dragged a bench close to the fire, which was now burning heartily. He drank half of his glass in one go and began his story.

“Where were you when the king died? King Edward, not the old king.”

“I was Norroy herald in those days. Where was I? All over London—it took a long time, his death. I remember leaving Skinners Hall and walking down to the river to pick up a wherry. A stranger told me that the king was dead. I was not sure whether to believe him, so I went back to the river and asked the boatmen there. The news had already circulated among them. It was then I began to believe it, at the riverside, watching the swans.”