Sacred Treason (21 page)

The two watchmen were very cold as they waited on Garlick Hill, at the junction on the northeast of Queenhithe ward. They had been told to keep warm by walking between the two crossroads: the one on Garlick Hill and the other at the top of Little Trinity Lane. That short exercise was not enough, though. Rubbing their hands together was not much good either. Even the one who had a traveling cape was cold. And now it was snowing. Large flakes the size of silver pennies were falling slowly through the London chill onto the frozen mud of the street.

Their instructions were to remain there until dusk. Another two and a half hours. The one without the traveling cape had taken to putting his hands under his arms to keep them warm. But Sergeant Crackenthorpe had walked past only five minutes ago and shouted at him for not attending to his duty.

“At least it will be another hour before he barks at you again,” muttered his companion after Crackenthorpe had gone.

They watched the people coming and going. They had been given a list of names, which only one of them could read; but they had been told to look in particular for a tall man in his midforties with short dark hair and a trimmed beard, and a woman in her late thirties, of average height, with long brown hair. No one they could see at that moment matched either the man or the woman. There was a servant boy, probably delivering a message, and three women coming back from the markets. None of them were like the description of Goodwife Machyn. A man in a tall hat with a proud demeanor was the nearest to the description of Clarenceux in the street, but he had no beard. The unguarded confidence with which he walked made it very unlikely that he was their man. Otherwise, there was no one but the old water-carrier, driving his emaciated horse.

The watchman with the cape decided that he would stop and question the man in the hat, if only to relieve the boredom. As he did so, the other watchman leaned against the wall of a house. The water-carrier's cart trundled past and turned into Great Trinity. The watchman looked at the water butt and the solid wooden wheels but saw nothing suspicious. He shifted his attention to the women walking toward him from the market.

Clarenceux, pressed against the barrel on the far side of the cart, let himself slip back to the ground and started walking again, his legs shielded by the cartwheels and his body by the huge barrel. He signaled to the water-carrier.

“Next left, into Little Trinity Lane. Then first right, into the alley.”

The water-carrier obediently turned right into the alley that ran opposite Henry Machyn's house and came to a halt. Clarenceux tapped on the barrel. “We're here.”

Rebecca stood up cautiously in the empty butt and looked around.

“Hurry,” he urged.

“Help me out then.”

Clarenceux climbed up onto the cart, feeling a twinge in his knee, and held out his arms to help her, placing his hands on either side of her body and lifting her so she could put a foot on the top of the barrel and climb out. He stepped back down and fished in his pocket for a coin, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger as he spoke to the water-carrier. “Here's an extra shilling. Head down to the river and go along Thames Street. Take note of whom you see there, how many men are loitering. Then come back to this point. It should take you about twenty minutes, and there will be an extra shilling for you when you come back. Have you got that?”

The water-carrier nodded and drove on.

Rebecca led the way past her house and past Mistress Barker's on the corner, and around the front of Painter-Stainers' Hall into Huggin Alley. She walked briskly and silently across to a modest merchant's house and knocked on the door. Clarenceux held back, on the north side of Huggin Alley, watching all around.

No one answered.

She knocked again. Clarenceux noticed movement in an upstairs window, as if someone was trying to see who was calling. But still there was no answer.

There were men riding up Little Trinity Lane toward them. At first he thought nothing of them—he had grown easier in his mind since they had entered the city. But then he noticed that there was a very tall, dark-haired man riding in the center of the group.

Clarenceux edged away from the corner. As soon as he was out of sight, he hurried across the road. “Crackenthorpe is coming.”

At that moment the door opened. Rebecca started to speak to the elderly manservant who held it but Clarenceux pushed past him and dragged Rebecca inside, closing it behind them.

“My apologies, my good man, but desperate situations call for desperate measures. I must speak to your master now—it is a matter of life and death. We have little time, perhaps only a minute.”

“Sir, your manner of entering is most shocking—rude, I say. If my master were here no doubt he would…”

“He is not here?” said Rebecca.

“Don't tell me,” added Clarenceux. “He hasn't been here all night.”

“Not since he went out late yesterday afternoon, no, sir. Now, will you leave?”

“Yesterday afternoon? So…is Michael Hill here?”

The servant froze. Confusion showed in his face. “Sir, I ask you again to leave…”

Clarenceux heard footsteps and looked up. A man was standing at the top of the stairs, about sixty and white-haired, but with a handsome, manly face, dressed in a furred winter robe. He took two steps down and stood there, leveling a long-barreled pistol at the intruder.

Clarenceux held up a hand. “Shooting me would be a mistake, Mr. Hill. I know you are one of the Knights of the Round Table, and that is why I must speak to you. There is a man outside at this very moment who would probably torture you if he knew you were here.” He took a step forward and stood on the bottom step. “We are friends of Henry Machyn—this is Rebecca Machyn, his wife. Is James Emery with you?”

“No.” The man's expression did not waver. Nor did the aim of the pistol.

“I have no time to explain, Mr. Hill. The man outside—if he finds me, he will kill me. He will probably kill you too, and Goodwife Machyn. Everything that the Knights of the Round Table stand for hangs by a thread. May I come up?”

Michael Hill let the gun down slowly. Clarenceux and Rebecca quickly ascended and followed him into a wide, comfortable chamber at the front of the house. The large windows let in plenty of light, and a fire was burning on the hearth. There was a settle and a bench there, gathering the heat. Hill positioned himself with arthritic slowness on the settle. Rebecca sat on the bench. Clarenceux went straight to the window.

“I am sorry,” said Hill. “When I heard the knock at the door, I was afraid.”

“I have been in a similar position,” said Clarenceux. The street below was clear. He turned back to face the others. “I understand.”

Hill continued. “I am sorry about your husband, Goodwife Machyn. He was a kind man. I knew him for many years: a very gentle soul.”

“James Emery told you?”

“Yes. On Sunday a message arrived here; one of the gravediggers is a man of our acquaintance and a follower of the old religion. He knew Henry Machyn by sight and knew that we were his friends. Having realized that Machyn did not die of plague, he thought we would want to know.”

“What did Henry die of?” Rebecca asked. “I mean, how did the gravedigger know?”

Michael Hill said nothing. He looked into the flames of the fire. Clarenceux was tense, listening for the sounds of men outside, hearing only the crackling of the fresh logs. Rebecca too was inwardly frantic, the tears close to her eyes.

“Mr. Hill, I
have
to know.”

Hill shook his head. “If you want the truth, his legs were broken. Both of them. Below the knee.”

“Christ, have mercy!” exclaimed Clarenceux.

Rebecca made the sign of the cross on her breast.

“We made plans to bring the body back to Little Trinity for burial but when we arrived there were soldiers everywhere—a watchman placed to guard Henry's house had been killed. So we agreed to meet the following day. Yesterday morning we met and saw the priest, and James went in the afternoon to fetch the body while I waited here. He did not return. That is all I can tell you.”

Clarenceux looked at Rebecca; she was sitting forward on the bench, looking down.
It
must
be
bitterly
hard
news. But the truth is, that is what is likely to happen to us too. This is not the time or place for compassion. This is the time to meet steel with steel.

He turned again toward the window to see if anyone was in the street. It was still clear; but the knowledge that Crackenthorpe was in the area was worrying. “I presume James Emery is also one of the Knights?” he asked.

“Yes. Sir Yvain.”

Clarenceux turned around. “And you are?”

Hill was seated with his hands on his knees. No less anxiety showed in his face. “Sir Ector,” he said after a while.

“Good, we're getting somewhere. How many more names do you know? I need to know everything about the Knights of the Round Table.”

“Whom else have you seen?”

“Only Lancelot.”

Hill looked back into the fire. “There were nine of us originally. Sir Arthur Darcy, Henry, and John Heath were the founders. They agreed on the scheme: each man would have a date and a name, and when all the names and dates were gathered together, they would reveal the key to the book that Henry Machyn was writing. It was a sort of chronicle, which would give us the knowledge to overthrow the queen. Only the three founders knew exactly how, though. John Heath died long ago. Darcy died two years ago. And now Henry.”

“What other names and dates are there?” asked Rebecca, wiping her face and trying to recover her composure. “We know of King Clariance of Northumberland. Lancelot told us his own name and also remembered hearing the names of Sir Reynold and Sir Dagonet—though he could not remember who Sir Reynold was. Now you have told us two more, Yvain and Ector. That's six. What are the others?”

“When Sir Arthur Darcy died, my son, Nicholas, took the name of Sir Reynold. As to the other three, I do not know.”

“What about dates?” Clarenceux asked, walking over to stand by the settle. “Lancelot told us his: the thirteenth of June 1550. Henry gave me the twentieth of June 1557. Both of those appear in the chronicle in relation to sermons preached at St. Paul's Cross. What is your date?”

Michael Hill shook his head. “We are all under strict instructions not to reveal our dates except when gathered together.”

Clarenceux looked the old man in the eye. “With respect, if James Emery has been arrested, he will not be gathering with us. Not here or anywhere. Lancelot Heath is in hiding too—he will not be joining us. The last of the founders is dead. Unless we work together, we will each go to the grave with our secret dates. And much good they will have done us.”

“I swore an oath. It feels like a betrayal.”

“How many dates do you know?” asked Rebecca, leaning forward on the bench. “Do you know your son's? And Mr. Emery's?”

“If it helps at all, think of this as a different sort of gathering,” said Clarenceux. “We are gathering the Knights' names and dates. It is all we can do—with the streets being watched and our numbers being reduced through fear and murder.”

Hill was silent for a while. Then he said, “I know two. My son's and my own.”

“Tell us,” said Clarenceux, who had walked back to the window. Snow was falling thickly now. “We have the chronicle in a safe place. We can begin to make this work…”

Rebecca nodded. “If James Emery has been arrested, as looks likely—and if your son has also been arrested—we will need something with which to bargain for their release. If we understand the code, then maybe we can talk to Walsingham. God knows that my skin crawls at the very thought, but it might be our only option.”

Hill remained silent.

Clarenceux looked out of the window again. Still no watchmen or guards were in sight. The snow showed that no one had walked that way since they had arrived.

“Goodwife Machyn is right. This nightmare is not going to be over until we understand this code. For any of us—you included.”

Hill put his face in his hands and thought. “The eighteenth of June, 1555,” he said eventually.

Rebecca nodded. “And your son's?”

“The fifteenth of June, 1552. God curse you if you betray him and me.”

“You have my most solemn oath,” Clarenceux responded, coming away from the window. “But what of the other Knights? We know about William Draper and Daniel Gyttens, although we are not quite sure where Gyttens lives.”

“I don't know the names of the others. One has no name—or at least he is not allowed to repeat it. But you'll find Gyttens on Paternoster Row. Ask the bookseller there, Francis Colwell. Tell him that you wish to buy a book of sonnets by Gyttens. That's the code. Otherwise, he'll deny all knowledge of the man.”

“We will. Thank you for that too.” Clarenceux looked at Rebecca. “We must go now.” Turning back to Hill, he added, “I want you to know this: Walsingham searched Heath's house some days ago. He has subsequently searched both mine and Henry Machyn's. If James Emery has been arrested, they must know who he is and where he lives. I guarantee you: men will search this house this evening or tonight. I strongly recommend that you change your lodgings—and soon.”

“I hear what you are saying, Mr. Clarenceux. And I respect your reasons for saying it. But I feel I must remain here, out of loyalty to Mr. Emery. I said I would, and I intend to stand by my word. There are hiding places.”

Rebecca was astonished at his complacency. “Mr. Hill, listen to Mr. Clarenceux. His advice is urgent and important. They will destroy everything in this house, and they will torture you. You must do as he says.”

“What threat could I possibly be to them?”