Sacred Treason (18 page)

They were both quiet during the meal. The musicians struck up late in the evening, and people started dancing, but neither Clarenceux nor Rebecca did more than look sadly at the jollity. She cried several times, trying to conceal her tears from both Clarenceux and the other guests at the inn. She drank three mazers of wine, reaching for her cup each time she found herself failing to control her nerves. Then she would smile nervously at Clarenceux and look away.

As they made their way from the hall into the half-light of the screens passage and out into the cold darkness, he took her hand in his. He did it almost without thinking, and Rebecca accepted it. He led the way up to the gallery, feeling for the door with his other hand. He lifted the latch and they entered.

The candle was still burning in its holder on the wall, casting a small gold glow across the room. Neither of them spoke. Clarenceux sat down on the near side of the bed. He assumed that the far side was her preferred place of sleeping, as that was where he had seen her earlier. She knelt down by the washing bowl and rinsed her hands and face, drying them on a linen towel draped over the stool. He watched her for a moment, then directed his gaze at his feet. He took off his robe and laid it across the end of the bed. He unfastened his belt and shoes, placing both on the chest beside the bed. He removed his doublet and ruff, seeing the bloodstains and remembering the fight. It made him feel sick, and he forced his mind away from the memory. Looking away and taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Then he felt the cold as he stood in his shirt and hose. He pulled back the sheets and blankets and got into the bed. He turned on his side, facing away from Rebecca so she would see that he was not watching her.

Rebecca had to remove her dress. No one could have slept in a garment with upper sleeves so stiff with braid and brocade. She started to unfasten it behind her back and then found herself struggling with the ties which were too high for her to reach.

Clarenceux listened to her movements.
That
is
a
gentlewoman's dress. Gentlewomen are dressed by their servants; they do not dress themselves. What Goodwife Machyn is trying to do is impossible.
He felt sorry for her.

Rebecca stood still, silent, and cold—and growing colder.

“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly.

“I was thinking, did you look in the chronicle for the dinner which took place here? The dinner that Lancelot Heath mentioned, when all the Knights met together.”

“I did. It gives no names. In fact, it says very little: only that it took place.”

She fell silent again, struggling with the dress. Eventually she gave in to the inevitable.

“Mr. Clarenceux, I cannot unfasten this dress. Mistress Barker's maid helped me into it. I am very sorry, but could I prevail upon you…”

Clarenceux slipped out of the bed and went around to her side. She turned her back to him and bent her head. He looked at her pale neck in the candlelight, then dropped his eyes to the fastening. It was quickly undone. He glanced at her neck again, and her back as the dress parted, and turned away.

“Do you leave the candle alight?” she asked as he climbed back into bed and lay down again, facing away from her.

“Yes. Let it burn down.”

He felt the ropes supporting the mattress shift with her weight. They were loose and had begun to lose their strength, with the result that the mattress sagged greatly in the center. He could sense that she was rigid, on her back, struggling not to roll toward him. He too was holding himself from rolling toward her.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” she whispered.

“Yes?”

“This is very awkward. I fear we are bound to touch one another.”

“I think that is a great likelihood, Goodwife Machyn. I apologize if I keep you awake.”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux, it is I who should apologize to you. I would have taken the servant's bed if there had been one.”

Clarenceux turned over and propped himself with an arm to prevent himself rolling into the middle. He saw her tear-streaked face in the light of the candle and lifted his other hand from under the sheets to put it on her shoulder.

“I feel for you,” he whispered.

She looked at him, shivering now. Cold and nerves—combined, they made her tremble all the more. “Mr. Clarenceux, I know we are only here together out of necessity, but I am grateful—”

“You do not need to keep calling me by my title.”

“Sir, I am only pretending to be a gentlewoman. I am a merchant taylor's wife—I would not presume to address you in any other way.”

He was silent. He did not want to be the one who corrected her, to use the word “widow.”

“Everything I do is false,” she went on. “Every movement I make seems to be ungentle; every word I say is that of someone lower in class than you…”

“Goodwife Machyn, this anxiety is not going to help you sleep. We must rest. Try to stop shivering.”

She nodded. After a short while she swallowed. More tears fell on the pillow. “Will you…will you hold me for a moment, Mr. Clarenceux?”

Clarenceux put his arms around her shoulders awkwardly, trying to embrace her and yet not draw her close. But she came nearer, nestling against his body in the middle of the bed, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I just feel so…so lost.”

“Goodwife Machyn, you are not lost. I owe you my life for removing the chronicle.” He closed his eyes, remembering seeing Will Terry's body in Thomas's arms and Thomas's tear-covered, lined face.

“You owe me nothing, Mr. Clarenceux. But thank you. Thank you for your understanding. Thank you for your warmth.”

Clarenceux was drifting in and out of consciousness. The scratching of rats in the walls kept him awake. So did Rebecca, shifting restlessly through the night. There were moments in his half-sleep when he thought he was lying at home, beside Awdrey, and the warmth of the woman beside him made him think of love. But then he would remember where he was, and he would turn both his body and his mind away from Rebecca and the dip in the bed to think about his wife. He thought about the chronicle too, and as soon as he did that, his mind fastened onto a whirling wheel and went around and around, trying to sort out the Knights' names and dates. He kept pondering June 13, 1550, and June 20, 1557, searching for something that might connect them.

It would not be long until dawn. The candle had burnt down; it was completely dark. He felt Rebecca move again.

“Are you awake?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“What are you thinking?”

She said nothing for a long while. “I was wondering where we are going to go.”

“We will cross the river and go down to Chislehurst. A friend of mine lives there, a gentleman and an antiquary by the name of Julius Fawcett. He is a little outlandish, and very old-fashioned, but he is a good Catholic. He will be able to protect us for a few days.”

Rebecca moved her hand to his shoulder. “And you?” she asked. “What were you thinking?”

He shifted away from her and sat up with his back against the tester. “I was wondering what connects the two dates we know—the thirteenth of June 1550 and the twentieth of June 1557. A saint's day? Or some other commemoration or anniversary? I don't know. Henry said that he was sure I would recognize a quotation from the book of Job if I saw one. But what can the Bible have to do with those dates?”

“Both entries in Henry's chronicle mention St. Paul's Cross.”

“Yes, the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham both preached there. It is the place where prelates deliver their most important sermons. But beyond that…”

The mattress undulated as she raised herself onto one elbow in the darkness. “What if the other Knights' dates all relate to sermons preached by powerful men there?”

Clarenceux pictured the cross in London, in the cathedral yard. It was a large timber pulpit with a stone base and a lead roof, surmounted by a gilt cross, and probably the single most visited spot in the whole city. Huge crowds flocked there to listen to preachers: there were dozens of references to it in the chronicle. But there was no writing on it, no inscription. It was just a preaching place. “I can't see that the cross can tell us anything,” he said.

“Perhaps Henry meant it to be a marker. Maybe all the Knights' dates relate to a different man preaching at that cross. Maybe the Knights we are seeking are just decoys and the real agents are the people who preached at that place? Maybe it is them we need to see.”

Clarenceux thought about it.
If
Henry
wanted
to
start
a
revolution, he certainly would have needed the help of important people, such as the abbot of Westminster and the bishop of Durham. But Goodwife Machyn cannot be right.
“The bishop of Durham in 1550 was Cuthbert Tunstall. He died four years ago. And the abbot of Westminster is locked in the Tower.”

“Even so, that might have been what Henry intended when he and the others established the Knights.”

“No. He would not have been so insistent that I contact Heath if the chronicle was simply going to lead us to dead and imprisoned men. What we need are more Arthurian names and dates. Henry said that when all the Knights were gathered, the secret would become apparent to
me
, no one else. He must have written something into it that only I would know.”

“If we are going to go into Kent,” Rebecca asked, lying down in the warmth of the bed again, “does that not take us farther from the other Knights?”

“Do you want to stay in London and be arrested?”

“Where is your courage, Mr. Clarenceux?”

He swung his legs out of the bed and sat on the edge. “I left it behind, years ago, when the duke of Suffolk marched out of Boulogne.”

“I don't believe you.”

For a long time he said nothing. “I want to make sure you are safe first. I will come back to London and find the other Knights afterward.”

Now it was her turn to be silent. He heard her move and felt the mattress shift.

“Are you well, Goodwife Machyn?”

“Yes, Mr. Clarenceux. I was just reflecting on how lucky I was. To be married to Henry for so many years. He was a considerate man too.”

Monday, December 13

It was a bright midafternoon when Clarenceux and Rebecca arrived in Chislehurst and approached Summerhill, the estate of Julius Fawcett. The wintry sun was going down, casting bright contrasts of shadow and light through the trees at the side of the road. They were riding horses they had hired at Greenwich with money obtained from Crawley, the innkeeper at Mile End. Crawley had relented and admitted that he and his wife had been given a sum by Henry Machyn. Hard times had forced them to borrow from it, and eventually it had all been spent. They had not expected that anyone would ask for it after so many years. In the end, he gave Clarenceux fifty-six shillings, which he claimed was all the money he had in hand and waived the three shillings and elevenpence of their bill. Clarenceux saw that the money was more than enough to pay for the ferry and horse hire and respected the man for his honesty too. He took just forty shillings.

As they rode through Kent, Clarenceux imagined that Summerhill would be to them as a castle was to a medieval knight. It would be their refuge, where they could keep the chronicle safe. There they could take the time to plan their actions and from there they could make sorties. A medieval army did this to impose control on the neighborhood; Clarenceux's vision was that they would ride to London, enter the city secretly by way of the blacksmith's gate, and find their way to the houses of the Knights. They could use Machyn's niece's warehouse for shelter or, in the north of the city, there were some houses that he knew well near Aldersgate. He had received a royal grant of the income from them when first he had been appointed a herald fifteen years ago, and he had taken it upon himself to inspect them regularly.

Clarenceux's thoughts kept him occupied for much of the journey. Rebecca too was silent. She found it difficult to understand all that had happened in the last three days. On Friday morning she had woken up as usual with Henry beside her. Later that day, he had told her to go to Mistress Barker's house and had left with a tearful good-bye that evening. And now he was dead. She was in hiding, her future bound to Henry's friend. She had even shared a bed with the man, and he had held her, at her request. She could not have predicted any of these things, nor any of the feelings she had had since first calling on Clarenceux. She had met him many times over the years, and even though she had only occasionally spoken to him herself, she listened with admiration to his conversation. His self-confidence and intelligence were very attractive, but she had always seen him as different from her. He was important, a gentleman, educated, and well connected. He was barely a part of the world that she and Henry shared. Or, rather, they were barely a part of his.

Poor Henry. He had worshipped Clarenceux. “The most noble man of my acquaintance” was how he used to describe him when talking about him. Henry was in awe of his learning and his social position. Clarenceux had been a soldier yet disapproved of war. He spoke with lords and knights yet valued his acquaintances among the lower classes. Never did Henry fail to mention that Clarenceux had been the herald who declared war on France. In Henry's mind, that portentous moment made Clarenceux's the voice of England, and the man himself the spokesman of the throne. It was too much—that her fate and his should suddenly have been woven into one and her husband killed.

“There it is,” said Clarenceux, surprising her out of her reverie.

Rebecca looked ahead and saw an ancient stone mansion between the leafless trees. It was positioned on a ridge, looking out over the Thames valley to the north, with woods around it. She could see the lead roof of the great hall adjacent to a large crenellated tower and buildings around a courtyard in front, with more buildings behind the hall. There was ivy in places: it was like a castle that time itself had chosen to defend. She could imagine men-at-arms riding out from the gatehouse to tilt at one another. Perhaps their ghosts still did. It was a picturesque but crumbling testimony to the distant century in which it had been built.

The view of the courtyard from under the gatehouse arch confirmed her initial impression of antiquity. The old windows looking outward from the house had been small, barely larger than arrow slits, but those overlooking the courtyard were much larger. The house had been built defensively, in an age before guns were common. Large stone cisterns caught rainwater from the roof. To one side of the courtyard a spiral stone staircase in a ruined tower led nowhere—or, rather, it ascended into the past. The chamber to which it once had given access had long since vanished: the space in which men and women had talked, argued, fought, loved, and died was now graced only with walls of air.

A servant boy ran over to take the reins of their horses as they dismounted in the grass-fringed outer court. There seemed to be a large number of servants carrying wood or buckets of water. Clarenceux led Rebecca across the courtyard and through a tall arch into a wide passage. When they turned into the hall she was confronted with a lofty space, sixty feet long and forty feet high. It appeared even more ancient than the exterior, for the walls were decorated with heraldic banners and moth-eaten tapestries, all overlapping with old swords, pikes, and bows. Long trestle tables indicated that the household ate together still, in the old fashion. On the dais was a table, as was usual; but above it was an old baldaquin, a canopy projecting out above the lord's seat in the center. She had once been in the Guildhall in London and seen something similar, and it seemed like a relic from a remote age. Here was an old aumbry against the wall, its wood dented and dark, close to an old iron-bound chest. It was as if a magic spell had suddenly been broken and she had walked into a house from two hundred years ago, which had been forgotten by the rest of the world.

There was a sound from a doorway to the left. A short man with a kind, round face appeared. “Good day to you, sir. I am James Hopton, chamberlain to…” He stopped himself and smiled. “Why, it's Mr. Harley. I haven't seen you for a long time. To think I was about to welcome you formally as a stranger. I humbly apologize. Here I am: chamberlain, steward, marshal, and general groom to Mr. Julius Fawcett, as I ever was. Sir, it is good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Hopton. And where is Julius? In his chamber?”

“No, coming fast to welcome an old friend,” called a voice from the dais. “William Harley, herald of the meritorious and fellow champion of the ancient and glorious dead, I spied you coming from afar. Welcome to you and your companion!”

Julius was somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age—it was difficult to tell. Long black hair streaked with gray emanated wildly from his scalp in all directions. It was almost a surprise to see that a man with such outlandish hair was clean shaven. He was slim and wore a fur-trimmed black robe over a green velvet doublet trimmed with gold brocade. He was quick on his feet for his age, walking with neat, precise footsteps toward Clarenceux and Rebecca. As he approached she noticed that his eyes were brown and full of sparkle, and his fingers were long and thin, with a gold ring on each one.

“Julius, heartily I greet you,” said Clarenceux, as he met his old friend with an embrace. “Allow me to introduce Rebecca Machyn, whose husband has produced an antiquarian work of especial interest. Goodwife Machyn, this is Julius Fawcett, gentleman and antiquary, direct descendant of the famous Sir John Fawcett who built this house in the reign of Edward the Third.”

Julius noticed Clarenceux's head. The expansive style was set aside in an instant. “You've been bleeding.”

“Julius, I will be straight with you. Perhaps even blunt. Goodwife Machyn and I are trying to evade a royal sergeant-at-arms called Richard Crackenthorpe. He is an agent of Francis Walsingham, who is attempting to uncover a scheme that involved Goodwife Machyn's husband, Henry Machyn, a man of the old religion. We have reason to believe Crackenthorpe has murdered Henry. He has certainly killed one of my servant boys and destroyed everything in my house. There was a fight, in the course of which I killed one of his soldiers. My wife has fled to her sister's house in Devon, not far from Exeter, with the children. I come here begging for safety, food, the use of your horses, and advice. If I cannot rely on your support—and, as God is my witness, I can understand why you would not want to shelter us—then just say so, and we will be gone from here and leave you in peace.”

Julius shook his head. “William, you cannot do me the honor of seeking my protection and then insult me by suggesting I am so inconstant as not to stand by you in your hour of need. If anything were to happen to you, I would not forgive myself. You must stay here. Money is in short supply, as well you know, but I can afford to feed you and shelter you. My noble progenitor, Sir John Fawcett, did not build thirty-five chambers in this house for the sake of my servants.”

Clarenceux embraced his friend again. “You are a good man, Julius. I knew you would stand by me. Thank you.”

Julius waited a moment while Clarenceux recovered his composure. “Actually, I have my own reasons for wanting to thwart Francis Walsingham. Did you know he grew up at Scadbury Park, the next manor? I've hated the devious little runt since he was ten years old. But let us go up to my study. I have spiced wine and Naples biscuits to warm you. It is chilly in this old hall when it is empty. Warming to the soul but cold to the fingers.”

***

Rebecca learned much about Julius and Clarenceux that afternoon. Both were animated: there was never a lull in their conversation or a moment of idle talk; everything they discussed was a matter of importance. She reflected on how much Henry would have liked to be there, to see his hero talking so earnestly with a man he clearly respected, trusted, and considered his equal in every way.

They were sitting at a table in the center of a room full of books. She had been impressed by the number of volumes in Clarenceux's study, but this upstairs chamber was both lined with books and stacked with them. Piles of them lay on the floor. Some were left open, heaped on one another. Each wall was lined with book presses. Late afternoon sunlight entered the chamber through a courtyard window and she watched the dust twisting and drifting in the air, hearing Clarenceux explain to his antiquarian friend everything that had happened over the last three days.

She learned how many adversities Clarenceux had kept to himself. He spoke freely with Julius about recent events—about Henry's visit, the chronicle, his journey across London by night, and his first meeting with Crackenthorpe. The account of his interrogation and subsequent sufferings in the cellar of Walsingham's house disturbed her. His emotion when describing to Julius the religious conviction he had felt in the cellar moved her. His tears on describing the sight of his dead servant boy in his manservant's lap made her own heart weep. She had not realized before how guarded he had been in speaking to her.

Through all the conversation, Julius listened intently, asking questions and clarifying details. Attention turned to the chronicle: both men pored over her husband's uneven handwriting. Julius had no more idea than Clarenceux about the meaning of the Arthurian names and the dates. But as he remarked, at best they had just four of the nine names and only two dates.

“I should point out,” said Julius, “if Henry Machyn said that only you will understand the secret of his chronicle, then I have to presume that my knowledge will not help you. All I can really offer you is a safe harbor.”

“That is something. There must be a hundred hiding places in this old house.”

“Oh, indeed there are. Although I am sure your enemies are used to searching old houses. But as it happens”—Julius drained the last of his wine—“William, I am going to show you something that you have not seen before. Something I have never even told you about. I must swear you to secrecy.”

“Of course. And Goodwife Machyn?”

Julius paused and looked at her. He gave Clarenceux an inquiring look.

“She has already saved my life once, as you have heard.”

“Yes, I was listening. But I wanted to hear you say it.” Julius got up from his seat. He took down a large volume from a shelf nearby and placed it on the table. He opened it, so they could see it was a Bible.

“Both of you, place your hands on it.”

Clarenceux and Rebecca did so, their two hands side by side on the holy page.

“Do you both swear never to breathe a word of what you are about to see to anyone else, at the peril of your immortal soul and the judgment of almighty God?”

“I do,” they both said.

There was a moment's silence.

“Good. Follow me.”

Julius led them out of his library and through a series of three chambers with interconnecting doors. The fourth was a small antechamber with a fireplace: Julius's writing room. Flames quietly flickered around several thick pieces of oak on a pile of ash and embers. The room was warm and light, with a large window facing the courtyard and a large, faded tapestry covering much of the walls. There was a chest and a single chair and table here, together with quill and ink and pen holder, and several piles of dusty books.

Julius lifted the lid of the chest, took out a couple of lanterns, and removed the candles. Having lit the first candle at the fire, he reinserted it and passed it to Clarenceux. Then he lit his own.

“Follow me, and be careful on the steps.”

He lifted a corner of the tapestry and pushed back a piece of oak paneling. Inserting his hand, he turned a handle on the other side and a small, concealed door opened—no more than four feet high. With the candle before him, he bent down and went through. Clarenceux gestured for Rebecca to go before him.

Beyond the secret door was a straight stone staircase leading down, built within the wall of the tower. It was cold, dank, and dark, and smelled musty. Rebecca and Clarenceux both trod anxiously, feeling the unevenness of the stone steps, running their hands along the cold wall. One story below, there was a chink of light where a second secret door led into a ground-floor chamber: Clarenceux peered through and saw a disused room, the floor piled with papers and rusted horse armor, a shield, and a chest of tarnished pewter plates.