Sacred Treason (20 page)

Tuesday, December 14

It was a bitterly cold morning. A harsh frost had whitened the landscape, touching the fallen leaves of the autumn with ice and freezing solid the puddles in the road. As Clarenceux and Rebecca rode back to Greenwich on their hired horses, leading two more borrowed from Julius, they saw the crests of the hills behind them powdered with snow. Long icicles hung down from the thatched roofs of cottages. The rooks in the trees on either side of the road
caw-cawed
in their gathering, anxious at the hardness of the ground.

There were few people on the road and none who regarded the travelers with any suspicion. None the less, Clarenceux rode with his velvet cap pulled down low and the collar of his robe pulled high. At Greenwich they returned the horses and set out to ride along the south bank to Southwark. The tower of the old abbey church came into view, as did the spires and towers of the churches north of the river and the houses on London Bridge. They fell into silent thoughtfulness. The nearer they came to London, the greater the danger.

“Are you worried?” Clarenceux asked.

She did not grace his question with an answer.

“We need not both go into the city. You could stay in Southwark.”

Rebecca brought her horse to a standstill. “If one of us should go alone, it should be me. I will arouse less suspicion.”

Clarenceux rode on. He was wearing gloves that Julius had given him, but holding the reins, his hands were fists. Rebecca could see that the leather across his knuckles was taut. She urged her horse on.

“Well?” she asked after a minute more of his silence.

Clarenceux stared straight ahead at the tower of the abbey. “When Daniel entered the lions' den, it was a test of faith. And when the king went to the lions' den in the morning and called out to Daniel, asking him if God had protected him, Daniel replied, ‘God has sent an angel who has shut the lions' mouths.'” He rode on in silence for a few paces. “It is your choice,” he added, glancing at her. “I hope you will come with me. Your company is a support to me. You keep me mindful of my duty. You give me strength. But ultimately, our fate is in God's hands. If He wants us to succeed, then He will protect us. He will send an angel to cover the eyes of those watching.”

“Mr. Clarenceux, do you think you can presume so much? Did almighty God save you from that man at my house when you went there, the one you killed? Did God shield you from the other man who was watching you?”

“Perhaps He did.”

“If He did, then you should be thankful and humble, and not so proud as to think He will protect you a second time. Do not put the Lord to the test.”

Clarenceux stopped and turned to her. “Do you believe we are doing His work, Goodwife Machyn? In your heart, do we have a choice?”

“Yes, I do believe we are doing His work,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But we do have a choice. We could choose to run.”

“I am too angry to run. I am ashamed of what has happened to my family—I have brought ruin on them. I am ashamed that I did not protect your husband. I am ashamed that I killed a man. I am ashamed that I believed that God had performed a miracle for me when I was in the cellar of Walsingham's house. There were things that Julius said to me last night, as well, that made me feel ashamed. That was my weakest moment…”

He could not bring himself to say more.

The bell of Southwark Abbey rang out. Twelve long chimes touched the icy eaves of houses near and far.

“God will protect us, Mr. Clarenceux. I believe that. Because He is angry too.”

They left Julius's horses at the Bell Inn in Southwark as the clock struck one. From there, it was a short walk to London Bridge. The tall houses on either side of the bridge peered over them and darkened the thoroughfare so that it felt more like a narrow alley than a river crossing. The crowds intensified the feeling of being hemmed in: carts and wagons were being driven across, as well as cattle and sheep. Some wealthy men and women were visiting the small jewelers' shops that proliferated here. The way was too narrow for so many people and vehicles; Rebecca took Clarenceux's arm and once again pretended they were man and wife, avoiding the women with baskets on their arms and the men leading packhorses.

Clarenceux walked fast despite his bruised knee, which worried her. There were bound to be watchmen at the gatehouse on the north side of the bridge.

“Slow down a little,” she muttered as they stepped around another slow-moving cart. “You are drawing attention to yourself.”

Clarenceux slowed. His gait fell into line with Rebecca's as they reached the middle of the bridge. His attention remained fixed on the far end.

Rebecca tried to look ahead to the three men waiting there. Had they been warned to watch out for them? She could see them now: they were armed with side-swords and halberds and wearing breastplates. A fourth man appeared, holding a pike and inspecting a cart that was making its way out of the city.

“What shall we do?” she whispered anxiously.

Clarenceux said nothing. He kept walking.

It
is
as
if
he
is
going
into
battle, so purposefully he walks. Perhaps the watchmen are less wary of those coming in, expecting that we are still inside the city and more likely to be trying to escape than re-entering it? If we have to run, what will we do? We cannot jump into the river—our limbs would freeze stiff in the cold.

She turned to Clarenceux and saw his mouth moving. She caught only a few whispered words: “…in our hour…Lord, bless thy humble…”

They were twenty paces away, fifteen, ten. A feeling of desperation was growing, threatening to take hold of her. She knew that she had to do something. Clarenceux was so certain, walking so determinedly, that she was sure he was going to confront the guards and try to fight all four of them. And they were armed. But what could she do? She held onto his arm.

One of the guards saw them approaching and held up his hand.

“Your name, sir?”

“My name?”

Rebecca's heart was pounding. She looked beyond the guard to his three companions: two were not paying attention, but one was watching them.

“My name?” repeated Clarenceux in the declamatory tone of his profession. “You need to ask me my name? This would not happen in Cambridge. It would not happen in Norwich. Just because I am not riding a horse into the city, you want to know my name, as if I am someone you might haul before a justice of the peace. Well, I am a justice of the peace myself. My name, my good man, is George Courtenay, of Moreton Courtenay in Devonshire, cousin to the late earl of Devon. And this is my wife. What, pray, is your name?”

The watchman glanced at his fellow guardsmen. “My name is no matter, Mr. Courtenay. I am sorry I had to bother you.”

“I am sure you are just doing your duty,” Clarenceux replied. “Indeed, perhaps this is fortuitous. We are newly arrived and unfamiliar with all the lanes and streets. Can you please direct us to the parish of St. Dionis Backchurch?” The watchman nodded and turned to point the way. Rebecca wanted to run. The second guard lost interest and looked away.

“Yes, Mr. Courtenay, it is an easy walk. The bridge leads directly into New Fish Street and then Gracechurch Street. At the crossing with Fenchurch Street, you need to turn right. You'll see St. Dionis on the other side of the road, about a hundred yards further on.”

“Thank you, I am much obliged,” said Clarenceux, making a polite bow as if he were indeed a foreigner from the southwest of the country.

“I thought we were Mr. and Mistress Lowe,” said Rebecca as they walked up Gracechurch Street.

“It came into my mind to say something grandiose,” explained Clarenceux.

“Will you warn me next time?”

Clarenceux stopped and looked around. “Let us turn left here, rather than go where they think we were heading. We can call first on Michael Hill, opposite St. Mary Woolnoth. But I think it might be better if we were not to walk together. If Crackenthorpe sees me, there is no need for you to be arrested and tortured too. If they take me, you can slip down an alley and get away. And if that happens, go back to Julius.”

***

The house was a modest two-story building but had glazed windows: a mark of comfort denoting a reasonably prosperous owner. Clarenceux told Rebecca to wait further down the street in case there were soldiers inside.

He knocked hard on the door with his gloved hand. There was no answer.

He turned and looked around: a few snowflakes were falling. Two young men in tall, black, wide-brimmed hats and smart velvet doublets walked by at a pace, both laughing at their conversation. A water-carrier's cart trundled past on solid oak wheels, a large water butt on the back. A moment later a woman in a long brown dress and a white cap appeared. She was carrying a baby and held a toddler by the hand. The child stamped to break the ice in a small puddle as he passed Clarenceux but the mother hauled him on, glancing nervously at the stranger.

Clarenceux turned and knocked again, firmly. Still there was no answer. He continued to wait.

Rebecca came over. “That woman, with the children—did you see her?”

“I did.”

“She was looking at you all the time. She has gone into the house behind this one, in the next street.”

Clarenceux knocked again and waited for a few seconds more. There was no sound from within.

“Very well, let us call there, then.”

They went around to the house that Rebecca indicated. She stood back and allowed Clarenceux to knock. A shutter opened upstairs and the woman appeared.

“What?”

Clarenceux looked up and was about to speak when Rebecca held up a hand to silence him.

“We need to speak to Mr. Hill,” she called. “He is in danger.”

“Don't I know that,” replied the woman. “Soldiers been here all last night and all morning. Wait there.” And with that, she shut the window.

Clarenceux looked at Rebecca.

“Woman to woman, it's sometimes better,” she said. “People like you frighten people like her.”

A minute later, the door opened a fraction and the woman in the white cap peered out. “Come in,” she said, looking up and down the street behind them. Clarenceux and Rebecca entered. The woman shut the door.

“This is Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms,” explained Rebecca, adding “a herald” when she saw the blank look on the woman's face. “My name is Rebecca Machyn. We know that soldiers are looking for Mr. Hill. They have already killed one of Mr. Hill's friends.”

“Killed a man, you say? The soldiers—they came yesterday afternoon. And then again in the evening. Mr. Hill, he didn't come back home. Mistress Hill was in such a state, not knowing where he was or who had taken him. She is staying with Goodman Sansom and his wife across the way.”

Clarenceux asked, “Do you know if anyone visited him recently—apart from the soldiers?”

“But of course, sir. All the time there are comings and goings from that house. Mr. Hill is very well thought of.”

“Can you direct us to Goodman Sansom's house?” asked Rebecca.

“Out of this door, turn right, and then turn left; go past the lane by the church and it's the third house on the right.”

“We are much obliged to you,” said Clarenceux, lifting his cap a fraction and turning to the door.

***

Rebecca caught up with him in the street, lifting the hem of her skirt to hurry along at his rapid pace.

“They've started rounding them up already,” she said.

“Without question.”

“But even if they arrest just two or three Knights, we are never going to unlock the secret. We need all the names and dates.”

“And Crackenthorpe has many men,” agreed Clarenceux. “There are just the two of us.”

It only took them a brisk minute's walk to reach Sansom's house. The door was promptly opened by the householder himself. He led them through the front parlor—where piles of sawn wood lay in mute witness to his work fitting wainscoting—to a rear room, newly paneled and warm. There were five triangular chairs—two of them occupied—and a trestle table. In the fireplace a small pot of vegetables was simmering on a trivet placed among the embers on a large pile of ashes.

Two women sat beside the fireplace. The older one, facing them, was about sixty, white-haired, and very pale. This seemed to be Mistress Hill, judging by her hollow cheeks and reddened eyes. When Clarenceux asked her about her husband, she seemed almost unable to reply, she was so weak.

“I don't know where he is or how he is,” she whispered. “I just wish he would come back. And that the soldiers would go away and stay away.”

“But is there anything you can tell us that would help us find him? His life is at stake, and so are the lives of others. It will help him and us if we can find him soon. Who has been to visit him recently?”

“Mistress Hill,” Rebecca interjected, “the men who are hunting your husband have already killed mine. I am a widow because of them. Don't let it happen to you. If you can help us find him quickly then maybe we can save him. Please.”

The hesitation showed. “Your husband was Henry Machyn? The man who did the black sheets in the churches at funerals?”

“Yes.”

“James Emery called yesterday morning. He had heard that Henry Machyn was dead at the plague pit, and had arranged with my husband to collect the body and give it a proper burial. They left straight away, and that was the last I saw of him.”

“He left with James Emery?” Clarenceux asked.

“That's right.”

“Where does James Emery live?”

Clarenceux had directed the question to Mistress Hill but it was Rebecca who answered. “Near my house, in Huggin Alley. We've got to go back into Queenhithe ward. Thank you, Mistress Hill, for your help. Mr. Clarenceux and I will do all we can to find your husband and make sure he is safe.”

“One last thing,” asked Clarenceux. “Do you know where your son Nicholas is?”

The woman shook her head. “I have not heard from him for several days.”

“Thank you again,” said Rebecca, turning to Clarenceux. He nodded to her, made a polite bow to the women, and left the room.