Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (25 page)

Joan Hellier sat at the trestle table in the hall of the stone house. She turned the dagger that was lying on the table in front of her, idly nudging the point with her finger so that it moved around like the shadow of a sundial. She turned it toward the smoke rising from the hearth in the middle of the house. The window was open but the gray skies made it feel more like dusk than morning. Across the fields came the sound of the bells.

“Ten,” she said.

Sarah Cowie, who had been sitting on the bench opposite, went to the pile of logs; she picked up two and set them down on the hearth.

“She has been quiet.”

“She is praying. I looked in earlier when I took her the morning bread.”

They fell silent again.

“Do you think Greystoke will do it?” Sarah asked.

“He’s a man, isn’t he?” Joan left the dagger alone and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them.

Sarah held her own hands over the fire. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

“She won’t suffer more than a bruise to her dignity. We’ve all put up with that at some time or other, some of us more often than not. We all have our crosses to bear.”

“It brings back memories…” said Sarah sadly.

Joan suddenly picked up the dagger and stabbed it into the table. “Do
that
to your memories. Has it escaped your mind that we have all been sentenced to hang? And our daughters? If he roughs her about a bit, then it is for good purpose.”

Sarah stared at her, holding her gaze but saying nothing. She turned away and looked along the track between the recently ploughed soil of the fields.

“Here he comes.”

Greystoke tethered his horse in the stable and entered the house. Both women looked at him but offered no more greeting than that. Joan worked the dagger out of the tabletop. Sarah watched him, her back to the window.

“It’s dark in here,” he observed, taking his hat off. “Light a candle.”

“We have none,” said Joan.

“Well, build the fire up, then.” Greystoke took his cloak off and dumped it on a bench. “Has the woman spoken?”

“She has been praying all morning,” said Sarah.

“She’s waiting for you,” Joan said.

Greystoke nodded. He unbuckled his belt and handed it and his sword to Joan. “Look after this.” He turned to Sarah. “You, come with me. Bolt the door behind me.”

The staircase was old and wooden. Six steep steps in the corner of the hall turned and gave access to six steeper steps beyond, ending in a short landing and the door to the upper chamber, where Awdrey was being held. Greystoke gestured to Sarah to unbolt the door. Her heart beating fast, she stepped in front of him and did as she was told. The door swung inward and Greystoke entered, closing the door behind him. Sarah bolted it and listened.

It took Greystoke a long while for his eyes to adjust enough to see the blanket-shrouded figure of the woman in the corner of the room. She was holding her child to her closely and shivering.

“Have you decided to tell me where it is?” he asked.

“God will curse you, John Greystoke,” said Awdrey, her voice barely audible. “God will curse you.”

“That is all you have to say?”

Mildred pointed to Greystoke. “I don’t like that man.”

Awdrey pressed Mildred to her breast, hiding her face with her shoulder. “My husband destroyed that document.”

“No, Mistress Harley. Oh God! How good it feels to say that,
Mistress
Harley, with you cowering in the corner of the room. No, I know he did not destroy it. He said the other day that it was beneath a floor in St. John’s College, in Oxford, and you agreed yesterday. If you tell me which room it is in, which building, then I will let you both go.”

“God curse you and kill you! I hate you, hate you!” Awdrey screamed. Mildred began to cry but Awdrey was crying more, and screaming “I hate you!” between sobs.

Greystoke just watched. When her shouts had subsided, he knocked on the door and called to Sarah. “Take the child out of here.”

“No!” screamed Awdrey, clinging on to Mildred, who was crying too. Sarah opened the door and came in. She felt her way across the room as Greystoke tugged aside the blanket and grabbed Mildred’s arm, trying to pull her away. Awdrey hung on to her tightly, screaming the word “No!” repeatedly. With Mildred screaming and Awdrey yelling, Greystoke stepped on Awdrey’s leg. He bent down and slapped her hard on the cheek and yanked Mildred’s arm, pulling her up and away from Awdrey. Awdrey still did not let go, however, and Greystoke hit down hard with his fist, once, twice, and again, bruising her arms. Mildred was screaming in terror now, and Awdrey howling as she started to lose her grip. Another blow from Greystoke and Sarah had Mildred in her arms. She hurried her out of the room, slammed the door, and shot the bolt.

Sarah sat down with the little girl on the stairs. Outside the rain started coming down hard, battering on the shingles of the roof, splashing in the puddles and mud, striking the walls. Sarah wanted to stop Mildred’s tears and make all well with the world for her. She heard Awdrey scream inside the room as Greystoke struck her, and she heard him yelling at her. She fought hard and cursed him at the top of her voice. Sarah only heard snatches of what he replied but it was enough. He told her that he hated her husband, Clarenceux, “with his pompous title and his delusions that he is a worthy swordsman, and his pretending to know Italian.” Most of all he hated him for thinking he could see through Greystoke’s plan. “He has no idea,
no
idea
, what is going on under his very nose!” And she heard the sound of Greystoke dragging Awdrey to the bed, and the rhythmic creaking that told her how Greystoke had taken out his hatred for Clarenceux on Awdrey.

Mildred sobbed, and called, “Mam! I want my Mam!”

Sarah did her best to comfort her, holding her as she would her own daughters, thinking of them. She looked down at Joan, who was sitting at the table in the hall, ignoring everything. Sarah felt a tremendous sadness with the world and the cruelty of the men and women in it—the terrible things they did to one another.

When, after ten minutes, Greystoke knocked to be let out of the room, he had an even colder demeanor than when he had entered. He fastened his breeches and stepped past Sarah. “Let the girl go back to her mother—at least until tomorrow,” he said as he went down the stairs.

“What? And you are going to do the same thing again?” asked Sarah, shocked.

Greystoke turned and held up a finger to her. “Don’t cross me. If you do, you’ll get the same treatment.” He looked her in the eye. “It’s something that Francis Walsingham taught me. You can torture a man to the point of death and he will refuse to speak. Tell him it all starts again in the morning—and that’s what breaks him. I will have her for a whore again in the morning.”

He took his hat and cloak, and opened the door. The rain outside was torrential, thrust down from the skies. He paused and waited a long time for it to subside, and not once in that time did he look back. Joan said nothing to him as he lingered in the doorway.

The things Sarah said to him, she said silently.

Clarenceux thumped the table in Cecil’s study so hard that one of the candles on a candleprick went out, a drinking glass fell over, and a pile of papers slid onto the floor. “Walsingham will not speak to me! Walsingham will not even see me!”

“William, you have no evidence. For all you know, Greystoke could be innocent. Walsingham trusts him entirely—and he does not place that amount of trust in just anyone.”

Clarenceux ran his fingers through his hair, unable to believe this was happening to him.

“I have
told
you, Sir William. Greystoke knew the name of one of the women who attacked us. No one else knew it—not even the chaplain who buried her. He lied about how he knew her name; he was forewarned about the threat—that was why he was able to surprise her and kill her. Don’t you see? He might have been sent by Walsingham, but he knows these women. He knows they have been sent by Maurice Buckman. He knows that they and Buckman are Lady Percy’s agents. He knows so much about them that he must be the one behind Awdrey disappearing.”

Cecil walked to the fireplace. He stood with his back to the flames. “I am sorry, William, but this is not enough. He thought he knew one of their names—you do not know if he was telling the truth. It proves nothing—especially if, as you say, Maurice Buckman is giving him information as to who they are and when they will attack. It sounds to me very much as if this Maurice Buckman is giving so much information so freely to Greystoke that he will imperil Lady Percy’s mission without us having to lift a finger.”

“God’s wounds, Sir William! It’s not like that. What do I have to do to make you see?”

“Evidence, William. You are a herald; you know how important it is to produce evidence for your coats of arms and ancestral claims. Give me some evidence and I will initiate investigations. But without it, what can I say to Walsingham? That I suspect he is a poor judge of character? I’ve never met this Greystoke. Walsingham has known him for more than ten years. He trusts him.”

Clarenceux buried his head in his hands. “I do not know what more to say. If you won’t take my word for it, what else can I do?” He uncovered his face and looked at Cecil. “What else can I do?”

“Go home, get some rest,” suggested Cecil. “I will send some of my men to guard your house if you wish. All you can do is wait for the Catholics’ demand. When we see who is doing the demanding, and how they expect the delivery to be made, then we can take action.”

Clarenceux sighed and walked to the door. Before he got there, however, there was a rushing of feet outside and a woman shouting, “Mr. Clarenceux! Mr. Clarenceux!” Without a moment’s delay, Clarenceux opened it and saw the woman who had been looking after Annie that morning.

“Mr. Clarenceux, you must come quickly! Your daughter is calling for you!”

Clarenceux was stunned. “Do you mean…the fever has broken? She will live?”

The woman’s face was a picture of sheer delight. She had tears of joy in her eyes, and seeing them, Clarenceux felt the tears well into his own. “She will live?” he repeated hoarsely, moving toward the stairs.

“She will live, Mr. Clarenceux!” shouted the woman, hurrying along behind him.

Clarenceux ran up the stairs as fast as he could. Such great hope was in his heart, such anticipation. He ran to the door, which was open, and went to the bed. Annie was lying on her side with her eyes open, looking very tired. She saw her father rush in and tried to sit up but could not. He put his arms around her and hugged her gently.

“I woke up and you were not here,” she said.

“I have been here, Annie. I have been here every day.” He pressed his cheek against hers and kissed her, holding her tenderly, aware that a deep prayer had been answered.

“Where is Mam?”

Clarenceux glanced at the woman who had entered the room behind him and at Cecil and two of Cecil’s servants who were standing behind him, looking in. Word was spreading through the house that the fever had broken. “She has had to go away for a while,” he said. “But she will be back soon, with Mildred.”

“Where is she?”

Clarenceux paused, feeling the need to lie out of kindness, not to worry the girl. “She has gone to see your aunt and uncle in Devon.”

“Does our waking angel want something to eat?” asked the woman who had been tending her.

Clarenceux wiped his daughter’s face and let her lie back in the bed. She was clearly utterly exhausted. “I think she will soon, won’t you, Annie, my sweet?”

Weakly, she nodded.

Clarenceux glanced at Cecil, who bowed politely and left the room. He placed a hand against Annie’s cheek and bent over and kissed her forehead.

Sunday, February 2

Sarah Cowie watched from the window of the isolated house. The church bells had rung for a long time that morning, on account of it being Candlemas. Puddles lay on the lane between the ploughed fields. The sky was a cold gray. Birds called as they flew across and stopped on the raised soil beside the furrows, pecking for worms. A copse of trees a hundred yards from the house swayed with the wind, and that same wind chilled her as she stood by the open shutters.

She dreaded his coming. She hated him because he was just so arrogant and callous. There was no way to hold him to account, nothing she could say or do to reprimand him. Twice now, one of Lady Percy’s women had been killed when he had been there—and on neither occasion had he saved them.

The birds took off again and flapped in the breeze, being blown backward for a moment until they dived across to one side and flew down to the ground nearer the trees. Spots of rain started to fall on the soil outside.

“Are you going to stand by that window all morning or are you going to do something useful?” demanded Joan, as she placed a pot on a tripod in the fire. “Their slop bucket needs emptying. He won’t want the smell of that if he comes back to do her again.”

In that instant, Sarah had the feeling she was in Hell. She found Joan gruesomely animal-like—but uncaring too. Helen was the only one of Lady Percy’s women she had warmed to in any way, but she had not seen her for ages. Perhaps she too was now dead. In fact, all things considered, Awdrey Harley and her young daughter were the only people whom she did
not
hate—but they had every right to hate her for what she had done. And in the eyes of the Lord, would it matter that she had been forced to do what she had done by Lady Percy? They all would surely have to atone for their crimes on Judgment Day.

Sarah went across the hall and up the stairs to the door of the chamber. She unbolted it and opened it, and stood there, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. The foul smell of the bucket rose to her nostrils; and with that she knew that if Greystoke did again what he had said he would do, it was not for lust for the woman but because of his hatred for Clarenceux.

After a few seconds, the chinks of light coming through the barred shutters allowed her to see the figures huddled beneath the blankets on the bed and the bucket in the corner. Awdrey did not stir as Sarah went to take the bucket.

“He killed them, didn’t he?” Sarah asked. “Jane and Ann—the women who died in your house.”

There was a long silence. Eventually Awdrey just said one word.

“Yes.”

Sarah swallowed. She picked up the slop bucket and left the room, bolting the door behind her, hating what she was doing, thinking only of her own daughters, praying for them. Walking with the bucket across the yard outside, she noticed the figure riding along the lane. For these last moments she could ignore him, as he slowed his horse to ride around the deep puddles. She emptied the bucket in the pit and went to the ditch nearby to fill it with water to rinse it. She was back indoors before he was.

When he entered a few minutes later, he nodded his greeting to Joan and pointed at Sarah. “Take the girl out.”

Sarah could not help herself. The impetuosity that had caused her to steal the pewter plates now made her open her mouth and speak her mind. “Why? Does she remind you of the sinfulness of your deeds?”

Greystoke walked quickly over to Sarah and struck her very hard on the side of the face. Down she fell, and a moment after her shoulder struck the ground, Greystoke dropped on her, forcing his knee into her stomach.

“Keep your manners bright and your mouth closed.”

As he spoke, Sarah was choking. When he finished, she was sick. He left her lying there and went up the stairs alone, unbolting the door and stepping inside. Sarah lay where she was, listening. She heard snatches of orders from Greystoke—“let go of the girl,” “get out of here”—and looked up to see the young girl standing in the doorway, not knowing whether to leave or stay. Mildred remained there, blinking in the light, as the unmistakable creaking sounds of the bed were to be heard. Sarah looked at Joan where she was sitting at the table; Joan caught her eye and then began to cut onions. As if nothing was going on.

It was over quickly. Greystoke appeared in the doorway of the chamber, pushed past the girl, and came down the stairs. He looked at Sarah, who was now sitting up with her head in her hands.

“Until tomorrow,” he said to Joan, as he stepped through the door and left the house.

There was a long silence. They heard him ride away.

“
He
killed them,” said Sarah. “Jane and Ann—he did it.” She looked at Joan and realized from her lack of shock or even a word that she had known all the time. Joan simply went up to the room, pushed the girl inside, and bolted the door again.

Sarah got to her feet slowly. “He did not even ask her about the document,” she said, as Joan descended the stairs. “He just did what he wanted. He just raped her for no reason.”

“Stop it,” said Joan. “He’s a cruel bastard, that’s evident. We need a cruel bastard on our side if you and I are ever going to see our daughters again.”

Sarah could bear it no longer. She went out of the house, slammed the door behind her, and walked across the ploughed field, stumbling over the furrows, weeping in the cold wind.