Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (12 page)

Cecil shook his head. “When he lay dying, Edward decided that the most important thing for England was that it remain a Protestant kingdom. To that end he decreed that he could alter his father’s Succession Act. Normally he would have been quite right: a king can alter his predecessor’s orders, even with regard to the order of succession. The problem was that his father was very shrewd and had had his orders for the succession enshrined in law, by Parliament. Edward left it too late; there was not enough time to summon Parliament to reverse the Succession Act. But the young king would not be deterred: he drew up his ‘device’ declaring Mary and Elizabeth illegitimate and making Lady Jane Grey his heir. That was the point at which we were forced to step onto the whale’s back of the law.”

Clarenceux had often wondered how Cecil, who had signed the declaration that Mary and Elizabeth were illegitimate, had not only managed to survive but had risen under both queens.

Cecil drank from his glass. “Who really governs this realm? Is it the monarch alone? Or the monarch in alliance with her people, the major householders of the kingdom? In truth, it is a two-way thing: the making of laws and the implementation of them. But the making of them is a matter for the monarch alone. So when the poor boy was dying and so insistent that his Protestant cousin should inherit, there was nothing we could do. You know what happened. You know what I did. The only reason I am alive today is that I insisted I was merely signing as a
witness
of the king’s will and on the advice of his chief ministers.”

Clarenceux lifted his glass to his lips. This time he too drank.

Cecil looked directly at him. “There will come a time when you know that your life is in the balance, and you will write to your wife for the last time, as I did in June 1553. Not to sign the device, the king told us, would be considered treason and we would be made examples of; we would be executed. Realizing what lay ahead of me, I went to my study, picked up my pen, and began a letter: ‘Dear Mildred.’ In that letter I bade her look after my children by her and also my firstborn son, Thomas, by my first wife.”

Cecil curled his knuckles and bit them, looking away from Clarenceux. “I gave that letter to Sir Nicholas Bacon, my brother-in-law. I would like to be able to say that I prepared for death then, but all I remember from those hours is that one cannot prepare for death. Death is nothing to prepare for. How does a lamb prepare for the slaughter? It can only carry on being a lamb.”

Clarenceux said nothing for a long while. Then he said: “Sir William, you committed yourself to the Protestant cause—even facing death. You gambled and won, for now. But I am not a gambling man. I have no need to be.”

Cecil smiled and sighed a little. “I would like to get drunk with you—properly drunk—but I know that if I suggested that, you would simply think I was trying one of my Protestant tricks on you. I don’t want that.” Cecil’s smile passed, and he became solemn. “You and I are like brothers at war—we have no hatred for each other, but we are not on the same sides. The most likely reason why Mr. Walsingham has increased the watch on your house is because Lady Percy’s sister is dead. She died in the Tower on the twenty-eighth of November.”

Clarenceux set his glass down on the table. “I must go. Tomorrow I have a long journey. I am preparing for a visitation of Oxfordshire. And you know I have to make certain other provisions beforehand, for the safety of my family.”

Cecil nodded. “As I said, the time will come, William, when you too write a letter to your wife, asking her to look after your children. And you will hand that letter over to your last true friend in this world, the person you trust most to stand in your stead and face your enemies after you are gone.”

Clarenceux ran his fingers through his hair, holding his head. “I know.” He looked back up at the portrait of Cecil as a thirty-two year old. “If you were thirty-two…That was the year, was it not? The year the king died?”

“The painting was done a few months before, when I was riding high in the king’s favor and he was expected to live for many years.”

Clarenceux bowed to Cecil. “When I write that letter, I will entrust it to you.”

Friday, December 27

Clarenceux lay awake in the darkness. Through the gaps between the shutters he could see the full moon. It was cold enough for a frost. That was good; for if ever the guards opposite were likely to close their shutters, it was when it was very cold. He knew now where he needed to place the marriage agreement, and that meant going to fetch it from where it was hidden: in a barn near Wargrave in Berkshire.

He had placed it there two years earlier. Under the pretext of visiting Awdrey’s sister in Devon he had made a long journey westward, taking every opportunity to stray off the road and visit a nobleman or an armigerous gentleman. In Berkshire he had heard of what he wanted: a modest cottage in a remote yet easily accessible place. He had purchased the property together with some land and had let the smallholding to a local man, John Beard, and his wife, Agnes. There he had hidden the document. John was an unquestioning soul who could be trusted not to take a flame into the barn under any conditions, as Clarenceux had stipulated. He also could be trusted to keep the hayloft loaded with hay and to keep watch for anyone suspicious paying attention to the barn.

He carefully clambered out of bed in his shirt, making sure not to shift his weight too suddenly off the ropes beneath the mattress. Awdrey did not stir. He crept around the bottom of the bed to find the jug and basin, pouring a little water onto his left hand to rinse his face and wake himself completely. He felt in the darkness for his clothes, pulled on his hosen, and held his shoes, doublet, and breeches close to his chest as he crept out of the room. The back stairs creaked terribly as he made his way down. He paused outside the door through to the hall but he heard nothing. Thomas, it seemed, was still asleep. There on the back landing, he hurriedly put on his doublet and breeches. He descended the next set of stairs just as carefully, carrying his shoes in one hand and feeling his way with the other. He paused; still there was no sound. At the bottom he walked across the flagstones past the buttery and into the kitchen. Here a little light from the fire was still playing across the floor, illuminating the ragged edges of the canvas-covered mattress on which Nick was sleeping. He shook him awake.

“Nick,” he said quietly, feeling the boy wakening beneath his hand. “Can you saddle Brutus for me in silence and without a light showing from the stable? I need to make a journey.”

The boy threw off the blanket. “Sir, yes.”

Clarenceux took two candles and lit one from the fire. He put it inside a lantern, closing the aperture so no light escaped, and handed it to Nick. “Be as quick as you can,” he said in a low voice. Then he lit the second candle and set it in a holder on a table; by its light he searched the kitchen for food for the next two days. He settled for a hunk of bread, some cheese, and a lump of ham that he sliced rather badly. Then he thought of what he had to do and wrapped the whole of the ham in a linen cloth, and placed it and the bread in a leather budget. He went into the buttery with the candle and felt around for a leather bottle. Having found one and filled it with wine, he crept back up the stairs to Awdrey and very gently shook her shoulder.

“What time is it? Is everything all right?” she asked sleepily.

“Everything is fine,” he whispered. “It is early in the morning—no need for you to be up yet. I am going away for a few days. I cannot say where. Tell anyone who asks that I have gone ahead to Oxfordshire, to make a start on the visitation.”

Awdrey was awake straight away. She pulled herself up in the bed and reached for him. “Why do you have to go? When will you be back?”

He held her hand and kissed it. “Five days at the most. Maybe just four.” From his clothes chest he took two clean linen shirts, a clean pair of braies, and two pairs of linen socks.

“Look after our daughters. Go and visit Lady Cecil—it can never hurt to remind her of her connection with us and her godmother’s obligations to Mildred.” He kissed her. “I will be back in a few days, I promise.”

“I will pray for you.”

He kissed her again, then crept out of the chamber past the door to their daughters’ room, and down the stairs, picking up his travelling cloak from the front of the house. He left through the back door. Moonlight was reflected in the ice formed on a puddle in the yard. He let himself into the stable and waited while Nick got the horse ready.

“Nick, I want you to lead him down the road. Walk, don’t ride him. Keep him to the soft mud of the street. Tie him up at Queen Eleanor’s cross and then come back, slowly and quietly. I will not be far behind you.”

Clarenceux watched the boy, wondering whether he would ask questions. Nick, however, merely nodded and did as he was told, thinking even to extinguish the candle before he left the stable. Clarenceux accompanied him to the gate to the yard and watched him leading the great horse softly away, its breath silver in the moonlight. After they had gone he too walked silently along the passage from the yard to the street and looked up at the house opposite. The shutters were still open, as they always were. There was a faint glow of a candle in the lower room but he heard no voices. No one left the building. He waited for about five minutes; then, satisfied, he walked along the street as quickly as he could.

***

Seven hours later, four hours after sunrise, Clarenceux found himself riding along the road toward Bath. Birdsong seemed to be coming from everywhere around him; the sun was shining, and the warmth of the light was making the cold frost rise from the ground in small clouds. For these minutes he was able to lose the grim determination that had tyrannized him in the city—he was sure that no one was following him. He was tempted simply to continue riding, to rid himself of the worry, and carry the curse of the document far away from London. He could take it and give it directly to a leading Catholic member of the gentry; everyone would then know he no longer had it, and his wife and daughters would be safe. But in so doing he would start a war. There would be a proclamation of its contents; it would be used as a rallying call to all loyal men of the old religion. He would be indicted as a traitor. In the Low Countries, the Spanish duke of Alva was massacring men and women in the name of religion. In the last reign, Protestants had been burned in the name of Jesus. There were many who sought revenge—so much for “turning the other cheek.” He wanted the old religion restored, but not at the cost of thousands of lives or burning pyres. Nothing would guarantee the destruction of the old religion more certainly than the blood and ashes of conscientious Englishmen and women.

He did not stop to eat but took some bread and cheese from his saddlebag and consumed it as he rode. On he pressed, not riding fast but making sure no time was lost. Travelers he was polite to, carters he saluted, women bearing loads he greeted with a smile, men driving animals he made way for. Whenever woods were too close to the road, he swept his cloak back, revealing the sword at his side. At fords he rode straight through on his great horse; at bridges he clattered over, or made way for the carts that queued up to cross.

Coming to a large elm at a crossroads at about three in the afternoon, he pulled on the reins and led Brutus along a narrow lane past a farmhouse. He wanted to ride on, and faster, to find out whether the document was still safe, but the track here was muddy and uneven. It was still frozen in places, where overhanging trees had shielded it all day from the sun. He dismounted and led Brutus the last few hundred yards along the rough track leading down the hill to his cottage, where John Beard lived.

The cottage was a single-story cob building on the edge of a copse, with low, thatched eaves covering the firewood stacked outside and darkening the open windows. The shutters were small and propped open. The thatch itself needed attention, especially high up, where moss and fern were growing in it. In the yard to the left of the house, where Clarenceux tied Brutus, there was an old cart with a broken wheel, its wooden planks rotted in places where too many seasons in the rain had taken their toll. Two brown pigs were roaming loose. There were two barns, one on the far side of the yard and a second, longer barn—
the
barn—on the left. Both had their doors open, and five or six chickens were coming and going, pecking here and there at grain in the cold mud.

He walked to the door of the cottage and pushed it open. Inside was so gloomy and smoky that it took him a while to realize that a woman was crouched by the hearth, tending to a dish over the embers. She was about thirty, thin, and wearing what looked like a black cassock; but as Clarenceux’s eyes adjusted he saw it was not black but brown. Her dark hair was tied back; her eyes were worried and tired. She was looking straight at him.

“Are you Goodwife Beard?”

“I am. And you, sir?”

“My name is William Harley.”

The woman paused, trying to place him. “Oh, good God, Mr. Harley!” she exclaimed suddenly. “The rent—oh, sweet Jesus—you’ll be wanting to speak to my husband, John…Sir, we were not expecting you. We did never expect you this quarter.”

Clarenceux ignored her worry and looked around the space of the cottage. The floor was nothing but earth and old straw; the gray walls were whitewashed cob, not even plastered. There was no ceiling, the house being open to the roof, with just one inner chamber for sleeping. The beams and under-thatch were black with soot from the fire. The windows were small and dark, the light kept out by the overhanging eaves. There was no sign of any children. It was obvious that little or no rent would be forthcoming.

“Where is John?” he asked.

“He’s gone to sell some chickens to his brother. He’ll be back before long. Do you want to wait for him? Or shall I say you called?”

Clarenceux detected a desperate hope that he would go away. She clearly feared him demanding money, which obviously they did not have, even though last quarter’s rent had been due at Christmas. “I would like to look in the long barn, if I may.”

“Sir, you are most welcome. I will look out for John and tell him you are here.” She set down a ladle on a wooden plate beside the fire and rose to her feet. Smiling nervously at him, she led the way out into the yard, stepping over the puddles in wooden-soled shoes.

Clarenceux walked straight to the barn and entered. After his eyes adjusted quickly to the dim light he found a ladder lying down alongside a wall. Lifting it, he set it up against the platform of the hayloft. He ascended, went over to the rear right-hand corner, and started moving the sweet-smelling hay with his hands until he felt the wooden timbers where the document was lodged. When he had first bought the barn he had placed the document on the floor and nailed three boards down over the top of it, as if they were a patch in the floor. He felt the boards, still fastened tight.

“Goodwife Beard,” he called down. “Does your husband have a crowbar?”

She did not answer. He stepped back to the edge of the platform. All he could see was the open door and a chicken strutting about on the ground. “Goodwife Beard?” he called.

Still no answer.

He climbed down the ladder and walked out, squinting into the sunlight. She was away up the lane, hurrying up the hill, holding her skirts. A moment later she disappeared from sight.

Birds chirruped and cheeped around him, and a slight breeze blew a few wisps of straw across the scene. Searching for something to lift the boards in the hayloft, he found a pail that contained some tools, but nothing substantial enough. In the other barn there was a cider press, crates of apples, some grain for the chickens, a pile of empty sacks, and a few sheaves of corn. Apart from their few animals, John Beard and his wife had almost no food laid in store.

He strode out of the barn and looked up the lane. Two figures were coming back down the hill, one striding much faster than the other. The second one was the woman, struggling to keep up, recognizable because of her brown dress. Ahead of her John Beard was moving purposefully down the hill. He jumped the small stream that ran across the path at the bottom of the descent, just before the yard. Clarenceux noticed the unkempt hair, the plain leather boots. The man’s shirt had once been white linen but was dirty, his hosen gray and old, his doublet leather and hard-wearing.

“Mr. Harley, sir,” John gasped, “I am so sorry I was not at home. My wife should have entertained you, offered you something. It has been a long time, I know.”

Clarenceux nodded, smelling the earth of the yard and hearing the birdsong still. He felt strangely at peace. “Regain your breath, Goodman Beard. I can wait for a few moments.” He looked to Agnes, who was walking toward them. “You and your wife are well?”

John looked around at the near-squalid cottage and its buildings. “We have had our struggles, sir, to be honest. I have a confession to make. About the rent: I know it is due but there was a big storm here at the end of the summer, and then the cows died. We lost almost everything.”

He had aged quickly. Both he and his wife had bags beneath their eyes, and a weariness there. It was as if their very lives were roofless buildings and they were forever battling to keep out the elements.

“You are doing well for chickens,” remarked Clarenceux, pointing. “And not so badly for pigs either.”

John glanced at his wife. “We lost our crop, a disease killed our cows. Almost everything valuable we had disappeared in three days. Then our daughter, Dorothy, fell sick too. We had no money. So I borrowed from what we had set aside for your rent, sir. I bought four dozen chickens. Widow Grey told us chicken broth would make Dorothy strong again, and eggs would be good for her too. But it was not to be. She died in October. We have eight chickens left—foxes took some, and we’ve sold or eaten the rest. We kept the pigs and the hay, for without them we’d have nothing to sell to pay you back what we took from you.”

Agnes reached forward and took her husband’s arm.

“Speak truthfully to me, Goodman Beard. How much money do you have of the seven shillings four pence you owe for the last quarter?”

John looked down. “To speak truthfully, sir, I have one shilling and threepence in my hand.” He showed the silver coins. “And I have another eighteen pence in the house.”