Sacred Treason (15 page)

Rebecca led Clarenceux down a flight of steps into a cold room full of large barrels on their sides. The pungent smell of old ale was heavy in the air. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she spoke with her mouth close to his ear, quietly. “Mistress Barker's servants take in deliveries here; outside is an alleyway that leads to Huggin Lane. That door at the far end of the room is locked, but I will get a key. At the other end of Huggin Lane, beyond Thames Street, is a warehouse. It used to belong to Henry's brother, Christopher, and now is owned by his daughter, but she doesn't use it; Mistress Barker does. We will be as safe there as anywhere. You must wait here while I go and fetch the chronicle and the keys.”

Clarenceux watched her leave the buttery, then took the linen from his head. It was heavily stained. In this dim light the blood looked black against the white linen. He was shaking. He was very cold. He had killed a man and a part of himself too. The soft part, the innocence—that was what had died. He remembered his rage on seeing Will's body; he remembered saying to Thomas that he no longer wanted to be innocent. That wish to take arms and seek revenge still gripped him. But how little he had known about loss of innocence. It was not like being a soldier, when he had killed men at someone else's order.

His shivering grew worse. The bitter taste of vomit in his mouth, the smell of the ale, the pain in his head. He felt with his hand and looked at his fingers; they were dark with blood. He held the cloth to his head again and wondered whether he would have been in such a frenzy to kill that soldier if he had not been hit on the head.

Yes. The decision had already been made. I made it when I put my hand on Will's cold forehead.

Noises came from the kitchen, pots being banged together.
Was
that
a
warning?
He felt nervous, on edge, as if any moment Sergeant Crackenthorpe might appear. He wondered whether he had actually blinded the second assailant. Undoubtedly the man would return to Crackenthorpe and tell him what had happened. And Crackenthorpe would not risk coming with just a few men to arrest him a second time. He would bring a whole army.

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Rebecca. She was wearing a long mulberry traveling cape and a felt hat decorated with an ostrich feather. Under one arm she had the chronicle; over the other she was carrying an old brown robe that had once been of fine quality, with fur trimmings and long sleeves and a wide black velvet cap.

She held the robe out to him. “You will need this.”

Clarenceux wiped his head once more and put the linen cloth on an upended barrel. He took the robe and put it on. It smelled musty and vaguely perfumed but it was warm. It would also conceal the blood.

Rebecca put down the chronicle and hat on the barrel and came close to look at his head. She touched with her fingers and saw the dark, fresh blood. She picked up the linen cloth, ripped off a portion, folded it, and placed it over the wound.

“It is only a short distance but we cannot risk you being seen,” she said, passing him the velvet cap. He put it on. “Good,” she added, looking at him. She handed him the chronicle.

“You take it,” he said. “They will be after me for murder. If they see me you can still get away.”

“No. Women with books attract attention—it means we can read. Besides, you are the only one who can make sense of it.”

With that, Rebecca went to the far side of the cellar and inserted the key in the lock. Clarenceux followed with the book under his arm, watching her from behind. In the shadows he saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath and then turned the key. She opened the door and stepped out.

It was still raining. She looked down the alley and beckoned Clarenceux out, locking the door behind him. Then she started walking fast. He followed her, struggling to keep up, watching the heels of her shoes splash in the mud and puddles as she turned into Huggin Lane.

“Goodwife Machyn, slow down a little,” he gasped.

She turned to look at him but immediately saw his gaze shift to the end of the street. A watchman of the city was riding fast, straight toward them.

“Walk on,” said Clarenceux suddenly. “Here, take my arm. Keep walking,” he urged. He made himself look away from the rider and gathered himself for the shout and the attack. Was he prepared for another fight? No. But he would fight anyway.

I
no
longer
want
to
be
innocent.

The rider was almost upon them and not slowing down. Clarenceux expected to hear the command for them to halt. He tensed his body, held Rebecca's arm close, and whispered a prayer under his breath.

The rider galloped past. Clarenceux glanced back and saw the man turn the corner of the lane behind them.

“Did you recognize him?” Rebecca asked.

“No, and thankfully he did not recognize us. But I would lay a bet that he was acting on Crackenthorpe's orders.”

They continued down to Thames Street. Clarenceux followed Rebecca as she walked quickly across and went around the back of the row of facing buildings. Here the wide prospect of the Thames and the masts of the ships on the quay came into sight, as well as dozens of porters, laborers, and mariners, together with a few clerks, merchants, and customs officials. Rebecca turned her back on the crowd and opened a gate between two tenements; a small quiet yard lay beyond. She walked to the door on the opposite side, produced a key from her dress, and opened it. Clarenceux followed, feeling the solidity of the oak door, thinking of refuge.

Inside the warehouse was a wide space, the nearer part open to the roof beams. Chinks of light came through in two or three places, where tiles were missing; water dripped here and there into puddles on the ground. The further half was divided into three floors—two open-sided platforms with a pulley along one side. Stacked on the windowless ground floor were sawn planks of Scandinavian pine and large oak tuns. Above, arranged in rows, there were huge sacks of the sort that traders used for transporting wool fells.

A ladder led to the first-floor platform. Rebecca went straight up and Clarenceux followed, looking around. On this side the roof had not been allowed to decay. A pair of rough doors opened out above the wharf on the far side. Although they were closed, daylight crept in around the edges, allowing a little light into the warehouse.

He sank down on the bare floorboards between two large woolsacks, resting his back on one. He was glad of the robe. He took off the velvet cap and looked at the blood-stained linen cloth. He touched his wound; the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

“I don't know where that second man came from. If there had been only one, I would not have needed to kill him. But two…”

“He was walking in front of you. I saw him from the window. I had been waiting all day for you to come. I knew where you were going; he did too.”

He watched her taking off the traveling cape. She held up the hat, showing him the bedraggled ostrich feather. She smiled briefly, then pulled the feather off and threw it to one side.

“Goodwife Machyn, I have something to tell you. Something serious. Your husband was arrested by Sergeant Crackenthorpe the night before last. He was hiding in my stable loft—he must have gone there after he saw me. Walsingham told me so himself.”

“Where did you see Walsingham?”

“At a house near the Tower.”

“And he let you go?”

“Only because his agents did not find the chronicle. Crackenthorpe returned to search my house. He would have found the book if you hadn't taken it. They were thorough—they destroyed everything.”

“I am sorry. Are your wife and daughters…holding up?”

Clarenceux looked into her eyes. “Awdrey has gone down to Devon with my daughters. The house is uninhabitable.” He straightened his right leg slowly and reached for the chronicle.

“There is something you are not telling me.”

He hesitated. There were several things he was not telling her. He was not telling her that there was no hope for her husband. He was not telling her how glad he was to see her and how much she touched him with her presence. He was not telling her about Will.

“What made you attack the guard at my house?” she asked. “You are not a violent man by nature. At least I have not detected that in you before now.”

“You remember the boy—the one who told you the chronicle was hidden in the barrel?”

“Of course.”

“They hanged him. In front of the others, including Thomas, who was his great-uncle.”

Rebecca remembered the boy's terrified face. “I am truly sorry. It seemed the only way. It seemed I…I had to take the chronicle.”

“If you had not taken it, maybe they would have killed him anyway. They would certainly have killed me. But as it happened, you did take it, and I am glad that you did.”

Rebecca managed a weak smile, as if to express recognition of a small mercy.

The sounds of laborers calling to one another on the quay reached them. Clarenceux looked down through the gaps in the timber at the boats moored by Queenhithe.

“What do we do now?” Rebecca asked.

“Lancelot Heath's wife sent a message. Apparently he will meet us where Sir Arthur was on June the thirteenth, 1550. I recall that as being one of the first entries in your husband's chronicle. So, let us put our regrets to one side. We shall pray for Will's soul later. First let us do what we can to make amends.”

He opened the book and read Machyn's first entry quickly and silently. Then he passed the open book to her and watched her as she read the unpunctuated words slowly and aloud. “The thirteenth day of June 1550 did Sir Arthur Darcy knight John Heath painter and Harry Machyn merchant meet dining upstairs at the sign of the Bull's Head by London Stone there setting everything straight and ordered fair in the green night room and after to Paul's Cross where we heard a goodly sermon by the good bishop of Durham.”

“I am going to the Bull's Head alone. I am no longer the man I was two days ago. I am set on a path now, and I cannot turn back. But you, you still have your innocence. I would urge you to go back to Mistress Barker's house and stay there quietly for as long as it takes—until this horror has passed.”

Rebecca shook her head. “Mr. Clarenceux, you and I both know that Walsingham is not going to let my husband go. If Henry's secret concerns the fate of the queen—
two
queens—and is so grave that a royal soldier thinks nothing of hanging your servant, then he is not going to be released. He is not a well man; I would not be surprised if he is dead already. And if he dies, then what have I got left? I am alone. I have no money, no income.”

She looked away. “If…if Henry is dead, then what do I have but his memory? Nothing but the knowledge that I will not forget him, that I will never do anything that would displease him, and that I will always honor him.” She wiped her eyes. “And since he gave that book to you, and was so insistent that you are his true heir, rather than his son, I have to help you, for my own sake as well as Henry's. And for your sake too. Look at you. You are bloody and covered in mud, you can only run with great difficulty. When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning. An eel pie.”

“Hardly enough. You haven't slept and you're not thinking straight. You killed a man in the street and you expect just to walk away. I would not be fulfilling my promises to my husband if I were to go back to Mistress Barker's now and abandon you, the man he entrusted with his legacy.”

Clarenceux looked at her. She was firm in her conviction, and brave. She held his gaze; her sad eyes looked deeply into his and allowed him freely to look into hers.

“You know that Crackenthorpe is protected by Walsingham?”

“It does not surprise me.”

“Walsingham also has a protector: none other than Sir William Cecil, the Secretary and the queen's chief adviser. We are up against the full power of the kingdom, with all its ruthless weaponry.”

“God will protect us,” she said.

Clarenceux nodded. “Well, so be it. We must find our way now to the tavern of the Bull's Head by London Stone, where Lancelot Heath is waiting. I suggest that we leave the key to this refuge somewhere where we can both find it. This will be as good a place as any to hide, if need be.”

The young man pulled on the reins to avoid riding into a cart of hay which was crossing the street. He was impatient. The task he had been given might have been awful—to pass the most distressing news to the most violent of men—but there was one thing even worse: to deliver it late.

He urged his horse on and started again to canter down Thames Street. He noted that there was a great deal of activity on the wharves; he had expected most people to be at their dinner by now, or sheltering from the drizzle that had settled on the city. But there were clusters of people at Dowgate, and he had to ride through the puddles to go around them, splashing them in his hurry. They shouted after him but he went on. At Queenhithe there were several large vessels moored. Laborers were carrying off sacks of spices and craning off tuns of wine for storage in the quayside warehouses. He took one look at the conglomeration of workers and cut off up Huggin Lane. Even here he was not alone; a tall man in a brown robe and velvet cap was walking beside a woman in an ostrich-feather hat. They seemed startled as he galloped up the otherwise deserted lane.

He finally caught sight of Crackenthorpe and his three companions from the top of Ludgate Hill. Kicking his heels into the horse's flanks, he urged the beast to a gallop. Crackenthorpe was not riding fast, and the messenger came within shouting distance as they rode along Fleet Street, near Fetter Lane.

“Sergeant Crackenthorpe,” he called. “Wait, I have news.”

Crackenthorpe gave a command and they all reined in their horses and waited, the horses' breaths and snorts punctuating the silence.

“I have the gravest news,” the rider said as he came to a standstill alongside them. He remembered what the constable had told him.
Break
it
to
him
as
if
it
is
an
order. He is going to be angry and distressed; he may even be violent, but Sergeant Crackenthorpe understands orders, and he respects those who do their duty.
“It concerns the traitor Clarenceux. He has killed your brother. He attacked him at Machyn's house and killed him in the street, in front of witnesses.”

Crackenthorpe's horse stirred, sensing its rider's change of mood. He pulled on the reins to control it and looked at the messenger. “How did it happen?”

“Apparently Clarenceux seized John's sword and stabbed him with it.”

“Was no one watching him? I gave instructions for both Clarenceux and his house to be watched. Did those men not help?”

“Ralph French was watching, but Clarenceux put out one of his eyes.”

“Holy Mary! When did all this happen?”

“About three-quarters of an hour ago.”

Crackenthorpe clenched his fist. He was expected at Whitehall soon. Walsingham had gone on ahead to report to Cecil. He could not fail in that duty. His instinct was to go back to the city, to start looking for Clarenceux. But it might take hours.

“You three, return with this boy to the constable of the ward. Tell him to have watchmen on every street corner. Tell him that I want to hear everything about this incident when I return. Then go to the mayor and the sheriffs. Tell them that Clarenceux is plotting to kill the queen. He is armed and has already killed a royal officer. Have a warrant issued to all the constables for him to be arrested on sight. Tell them to hold Machyn's widow too. No doubt she is with him. When you have done that, go to Clarenceux's house and take the horses from his stables. Sell them to pay for my brother's funeral. If anyone tries to stop you, arrest them.”

“What about you, sergeant?” asked one of the men with him.

“I must see Walsingham before he meets Cecil this afternoon. I have promised to do so, and I will not break a promise. And likewise I promise I will make Clarenceux suffer for killing my brother. I swear it. I am going to do to him and his manservant what they used to do to traitors in the past: cut his guts out and burn them in front of him. You four are my witnesses.”

The messenger had been expecting a violent reaction—shouting, accusations, recriminations. Instead, he watched as Crackenthorpe kicked his horse's flanks and started to gallop toward Whitehall.

The violence, he realized, was yet to come.