Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (5 page)

Already there were mutterings. Then the jeers started. The crowd had not come to be preached at. They had come to watch a spectacle, to meet people, perhaps have an illicit assignation or cut a purse from a stranger’s belt. They wanted to be entertained—and to that end they did not mind hearing a gallows speech from someone less fortunate than themselves. But they did not want to be spoken to about the queen; nor did they wish to hear anything concerning the Church. They resented Clarenceux’s intrusion. But they laughed again—heartily—when the executioner picked up a sackcloth bag and placed it jokingly over Clarenceux’s head. As the hooded figure of Sir John called out, “God be with you, William,” and the crowd erupted with noise and cheering, Clarenceux tore off the bag and threw a punch at the executioner, hitting him sooner than he expected, so that he struck the man hard on the nose, and he himself toppled backward. Both men fell off the cart into the crowd. Before he could regain his feet, the crowd had taken over the executioner’s role and smacked the horses into life, pulling away the cart and leaving Sir John and the other two prisoners hanging.

Clarenceux struggled to his feet and waded through the jostling mass to the figure of Sir John. Thomas joined him as he made the sign of the cross. Together they reached up, took hold of Sir John’s legs, and jumped with all their weight, pulling him down suddenly and breaking his neck. Several men did likewise with the young woman whose body was jerking beside the still form of Sir John.

Clarenceux stood panting, with mud on his face. He looked at Thomas and placed a hand on his shoulder. No sooner had he done so than one of the guards knocked his arm away with the shaft of his halberd. Two others seized his arms and proceeded to tie his hands behind his back. “You will face the justices tomorrow,” said the first guard. “Take him to Newgate. Since you want to be on that cart so much, we’ll see you get your chance.”

In the small dining room at Cecil House, Sir William sat alone at table. The door was shut. Before him was a silver salt cellar, a silver dish containing a roast capon and some slices of roast beef, two silver saucers—one with a mustard sauce, the other with a white wine and onion sauce—some bread, a drinking glass, and a flagon of wine. He did not feel hungry. Or, to be exact, his yearning to have some time to himself outweighed his hunger. He broke the bread and set it down on the white linen tablecloth, looking at the crumbs, playing at them with one finger. He then glanced up at the portrait of his wife, Mildred, that hung above the fireplace.

Life
is
a
labyrinth
, he thought, as he pushed the crumbs into a line.
The
way
in
is
simple
enough, at birth, and the way out easy enough, at death; and no one can fail to find a path between the two. Yet how few people find their way to the mysteries at its heart? Most of us are lost. Most of us depend on maps which are in themselves labyrinthine. The Bible is one such map, poetry another.
The breadcrumbs were arranged in a neat row; now he moved them into a circle.
For the most part we rely on direction through simplification. The art of government, like the arts of writing, astrology, and navigation, is to make such simplifications meaningful. Politics is the art of meaningful simplification—purposeful lies.

He reached forward, cut a slice of beef in half, picked up one piece with his fingers, and dipped it in the mustard sauce. The rich taste of the meat made his mouth water. Its robust flavor, coupled with the smooth piquancy of the mustard, which affected his nose, gave him an instant of pleasure, and he rediscovered his hunger. He took a piece of bread and dipped it in the white wine sauce. That too was good.
French
sauciers
are
the
best
, he reflected, reaching forward with his knife to cut a slice of capon. He dipped this in the same sauce, as one of his ushers knocked at the door.

“Do not disturb me,” he said.

There came another knock.

Cecil hurriedly picked up another piece of beef with his fingers, dipped it in the mustard sauce, and pushed it into his mouth. Still chewing, he sliced a second piece of capon and dipped that in the white wine sauce.
Every
moment
a
new
opening
appears
in
the
labyrinth
.

The usher knocked a third time. “Sir William, Mr. Walsingham has come to see you. He craves your attention most insistently.”

Cecil finished chewing and started to cut himself another piece of capon. “Send him in.” He took his time now, pretending he was dining in slow luxury.

Walsingham entered, wearing his usual thin ruff, black doublet, black skull cap, and deep frown. He was thirty-three years of age, the same age as the queen, yet anyone who did not know them would think them a generation apart. He had the demeanor of a man ten years older, while Elizabeth could be as playful as a girl when she felt so inclined. Cecil wondered whether Walsingham had ever been playful—even as a child.

“Sir William, I have received a report from Scotland—about the christening of the royal babe—the nature of which I presume is not unknown to you.”

Cecil gestured to a chair. “As you can see, Francis, I am dining. Could this not wait?”

“If I waited every time I needed to discuss matters of State with you, you would be much the more ignorant and I would never have the answers I need. If you will, I shall return another day. For my part, the business of the State takes priority over my mealtimes.”

Cecil wiped his mouth on a napkin and put it back down on the table. “Quite. Yes, absolutely, Francis. I will have you join me. You must try the capon in the white wine sauce—it is excellently pleasing.” Cecil got to his feet, went to the door, spoke to the usher waiting outside, and closed it. “So, what is the news?”

“You know about the baptismal font?” replied Walsingham, clearly agitated.

“Of course. It is no secret: twenty-one pounds of pure gold—and the finest workmanship. They’ll melt it down, of course, but in the meantime it should make quite an impression.”

“And the queen used it to buy the right to name the child James—is that true? And if it is true, does not that signify that she sees him as her successor?”

“Her majesty was determined that the child not be called Charles, despite his mother’s wishes. I supported her majesty in that and so I suggested that she make the gift of the baptismal font. Her majesty confirmed on the ninth of December that the child was to be christened James. The christening should have taken place two days ago, on the seventeenth. Presuming that happened as planned, the babe is now James Charles Stewart, or Charles James Stewart, prince of Scotland. Either way, he will be called James.”

Walsingham thumped the table. “For years we have been asking her majesty to confirm her intentions regarding the succession. In this present parliament that now is sitting she has declared that no one may discuss the succession—on pain of death. And yet she goes so far as to give a name to her legal heir, and a name contrary to that chosen by his own mother. In so doing she has practically named the boy as the next king of England.”

There was a knock at the door. A servant brought in a silver plate.

“The queen may yet have children of her own,” objected Cecil.

“She has done precious little about it yet,” replied Walsingham, cutting some capon and putting it on the plate now set in front of him. “If she names her successor, then we know whom to guard against and whom to protect. If her successor is a Catholic, he will throw this entire nation into chaos and confusion. She will give succor to the Catholic cause. The alliances and schemes I discover—are they signs of future loyalty or indications of an incipient attack on her majesty? How can she name a prince, the child of both her cousins, and the child not be seen as her heir? The child has been baptized a Catholic. Both his parents are Catholic. She has taken a role in naming that boy in a Catholic ceremony. How can she do this and expect no reaction from the Catholic community? She has named her killer—or at least the boy in whose name she will be killed.”

Cecil leaned forward and took a whole slice of beef. He rubbed it in the mustard sauce, then put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. He swallowed. “Whether she is killed or not is very much your responsibility, Francis. But as you know, many things may—and will—happen between now and the next reign, and let us hope to God that many years pass. The prince may not live. Catherine Grey’s sons might be restored to favor; and as you know I am trying to persuade her majesty that some leniency toward their father, Lord Hertford, is highly advisable, especially if he permits their education in the Protestant faith. No less significant is the possibility that Mary herself might not live.”

“She has only just turned twenty-five.”

Cecil shrugged. “How are you getting along with that new wife of yours?”

Walsingham paused with a piece of beef on the way to his mouth. “What has that to do with the matter in question?”

“Mary of Scotland does not get along with Lord Henry Stewart. As husbands go, he leaves a lot to be desired.”

“I’m not surprised—after he murdered her lover, David Rizzio.”

“Rizzio may or may not have been her lover. Personally, I doubt it. However, he
was
her informer. Lord Henry Stewart had him killed because of what he knew, not what he did. As it happened, he was too late. Rizzio had already passed on his information, just moments before he was killed.”

Walsingham set down his knife. “And that was?”

“That if the child that Queen Mary was then carrying turned out to be a son, then Lord Henry Stewart would have her murdered. He would then rule Scotland in the minority of the child. Of course he would also be the sole potential Stewart heir to the throne of England. If Elizabeth died before the child grew to be of age, Lord Henry would rule both countries during his son’s minority.”

Cecil watched Walsingham get up and walk to the window. “That is…sickening.”

Cecil stopped eating. “I have never seen you so taken aback, Francis. I am surprised. You know as well as I do that Lord Henry Stewart is a drunkard and a killer.”

“And your counsel to her majesty is—what? To take advantage of Lord Henry killing his wife? The queen of Scotland is Elizabeth’s cousin once removed.”

“So is Lord Henry. But Mary is forewarned now—Rizzio did not die in vain—and her loyal subjects are alerted. She is by no means without friends. In fact, she has many more friends than Lord Henry north of the border. His strongest supporters are mostly in England: the Catholics who see him as the savior of the old religion, or family connections like his mother, Lady Margaret Douglas, although what good she can do him in the Tower, I am not sure. I trust you have ears and eyes around her too.”

“Of course. There is a rather sour gentleman with spectacles who pretends to go by the name of John Black and who brings messages to her—where from, I do not know. I am reliably informed that John Black is actually a Catholic priest called Maurice Buckman. No doubt he is her confessor too. But I am intrigued by your idea that Queen Mary and Lord Henry Stewart will destroy each other. You think that the new prince will be the heir, sooner rather than later?”

“If he lives, yes.”

“And if he does not?”

“By then, with God’s grace, our queen will have her own heir.”

Walsingham scoffed at that. He sat back down, helping himself to the last piece of beef. “Have you ever really studied her, and looked at her as a woman, not as a queen?” he asked Cecil.

“It is impossible to forget she is the queen.”

“Exactly. She never lets anyone forget. And you cannot see her as a woman. You cannot desire her; you cannot imagine treating her as a woman. You can tell a woman what to do—you can give her orders, you can expect her to obey you, and you can beat her if she refuses. You cannot do that with a queen. But truly, deep inside Queen Elizabeth of England is a small, frightened girl whose father killed her mother and who lived in terror of being killed by her sister. Fear conditions her every move. But she is supremely intelligent, as we all know. She has seen what she needs to be in order to survive. She has created herself, designed herself, and changed herself into something magnificent—much more than a woman. She can command, she can control, she understands. She has made herself master of many manly skills and yet she has preserved the spiritual or mystical virtues of her womanhood. She is merciful—she listens to her subjects, she does not crush them beneath a rod of iron but commands them with a white wand to do their duty for the nation. And she can be a destroying black angel too. She is not a woman. She does not want to be a woman; she wants to be an angel. She wants to be worshipped, to be adored, to be loved and yet still remain pure, divine, both great and, above all, safe.”

“But she cannot escape the fact that she is a woman,” Cecil put in.

“I agree.” Walsingham nodded. “Inside the angel, she
is
a woman—and that is her vulnerability. If she marries, the woman will be revealed—stripped of her divine purity and seen to be all too mortal. If she falls pregnant, she may die in childbirth, like a mere mortal, handing power directly to her next successor, the Catholic queen, or the prince. She must therefore do all she can to stay alive—and that means not marrying, not becoming pregnant, not being seen to be womanly or weak, but playing the part of God’s angel in England.”

Cecil poured wine into his glass, drank from it, wiped the edge with his napkin, and offered it to Walsingham, who accepted it. “If the privy council deem it expedient, she will marry,” he said. “Her fears are not above the interests of the nation.”

“She is more than a match for the privy council. Do you think it merely an unfortunate coincidence that she favors both you and Lord Dudley? If it weren’t him it would be someone else that she would use to balance you and to check your influence.”

Cecil was not amused. “I flatter myself that I know her better than you.”

“That is what blinds you. That is why you cannot see the facts. You are too involved in the elaborate intricacies of things. If she does what you suggest, and marries to please the privy council, she will have second thoughts very soon afterward.”

Cecil frowned. “Well, Francis, I have answered your question about the queen naming the Scots prince. I have told you what I think will happen between the Scots queen and her husband. I will reflect on what you say about the queen marrying. In return, I will give you a further piece of information on which to reflect. I mentioned earlier that Queen Mary is not without friends in Scotland. In November she met her loyal magnates, ostensibly to discuss the baptism. However, it was decided then to end the royal marriage—either by divorce or by some other means, for the lords would not accept being ruled over by Lord Henry Stewart, who they believe will prove a tyrant if he succeeds in killing Mary. It is either him or her. One of them is going to dispose of the other. And it is going to happen soon. The royal couple have planned a reconciliation in January—and that can only be because one wants to get close enough to the other to perform the final cut.”

Walsingham rubbed his chin. “It was always the way with the Scots. How many murders and black deeds have they performed over the centuries? Has an Irish or Scottish king ever died in his bed? By comparison, we English are mild and meek.”

Cecil laughed. “Listen to yourself—think about Edward II and Richard II, Henry VI and Edward V. We have had our share of royal butchery. But anyway, that’s not the issue. Be aware that one heir of Scotland is set to kill the other, and that if Lord Henry Stewart is the victor, you can expect his attentions to turn to England very soon thereafter.”

Walsingham nodded and got up to leave.