Sacred Treason (29 page)

Wednesday, December 22

They rode through the open gates of Sheffield Manor in the early afternoon. The previous day they had ridden hard for as many hours as they could and covered no less than thirty-three miles. It had been a stoic effort from Rebecca, who had finally admitted her wrist was sprained from her fall. Today they had left at first light and covered the twenty-four miles at a similar pace.

As if in welcome, the clouds that had lowered over them for so much of the last week now parted and a weak winter sun shone through, gleaming off the wet bark of the trees that grew alongside the approach to the house. The parkland was a wide swathe of green grass dotted with oaks and elms. A herd of deer was feeding beneath the spreading boughs of a large oak. Further on a cart loaded with firewood was being hauled across the park. As they came in sight of the house, both Clarenceux and Rebecca admired the impressive proportions of a substantial three-story stone mansion with a large number of elegant mullioned windows and a tall entrance porch. The sun shone across the face of the building, reflecting off the panes of glass and giving the stone a welcoming, warm hue.

The gatekeeper approached and inquired who they were and the nature of their business, and then led them to the front of the house. He ordered a boy to hold Rebecca's horse as they dismounted. Clarenceux untied the chronicle, still wrapped in its canvas-covered boards, and put it under his arm. As the boy led both horses away to the stables, the gatekeeper gestured for them to follow him through to the hall.

Servants were setting up two long trestle tables for supper, covering each table with white linen cloths. Tapestries surrounded the dais but were cut away to allow access to the doors that led to the private apartments. A fire was burning on the central hearth, gray-white smoke rising in the sunlight that entered by the tall windows on the south side. On the walls at the lower end of the hall were racks of bows and pikes, and a few long-barreled guns. The arms of the earl of Shrewsbury were painted on a huge cloth that hung high on one wall.

A fresh-faced young gentleman in a high collar and smart, narrow ruff came through one of the doorways on the dais and bowed to Clarenceux. “God speed you, Mr. Clarenceux, Goodwife Machyn. My name is Benedict Richardson, her ladyship's chamberlain. Her ladyship has consented to give you an audience immediately in the great chamber.”

Richardson led them along a corridor and up a handsome wooden staircase, well lit by the tall windows. At the top, on the first floor, the ceiling was high and the space light and airy. Through into the first chamber they went, and then into the next: a warm room, wrapped in brilliantly colored tapestries, with a blazing fire.

Lady Percy, dowager countess of Northumberland, watched both of them from her chair as they entered. Behind her stood four gentlemen of her chamber. Her black silk dress was covered in jewels and fine brocade. Her tightly dressed hair was also bedecked with jewels, and her ruff was decorated with lace.

“Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, and Goodwife Machyn,” Richardson said in a clear voice, bowing.

A strand of gray hair was loose, and she pushed it back out of the way as she studied them.

“You are a younger man than I was expecting,” she said.

Clarenceux stepped across to the middle of the room and knelt before her, putting his right knee all the way to the ground. Then, still holding the chronicle, he stood and looked her ladyship in the eye. “My lady, right heartily I greet you, having traveled directly and as speedily as possible from London. If you were expecting me, then you will know me by the name of King Clariance of Northumberland. My companion is the widow of the last King Clariance, Henry Machyn, a member of the Merchant Taylors' Company. He was indeed older than me. He died for the cause.”

The dowager countess looked Clarenceux up and down. Then she turned her attention to Rebecca, noting her simple clothes, high cheekbones, and determined expression. She guessed that she was nervous but making sure it did not show. The countess liked that. Self-control was a virtue—especially in a woman, and especially in political matters.

Lady Percy lifted her right arm and, with a wave of her hand, dismissed the men standing around the room. Benedict Richardson waited for them all to leave and then shut the door to the great chamber with a well-rehearsed formality. He alone remained with the three of them within the room, standing beside the door.

“Mr. Clarenceux, I presume you have good reason to risk leading the authorities to my house?”

“You know the reason. I am holding it under my arm.”

“That would be a chronicle. Written by Goodman Machyn.”

“Indeed. The authorities in London have threatened to kill me if I do not hand it over to them.”

“Then why do you not do so?”

“Because they would kill me anyway, simply for having it.”

“You are a wise man, Mr. Clarenceux. So, why have you come here?”

“With all respect for your ladyship, I need to know what the chronicle means.”

At first, Rebecca had been overawed by the grandeur of the room, but she had quickly found her confidence and recovered her normal train of thought. Now she interjected, “My lady, you said you had been expecting King Clariance. How long have you been waiting?”

The countess looked at Rebecca. Suddenly, a small light crossed her face, a sense of recognition that nearly—but not quite—became a smile. “How long indeed. That is a more difficult question than you realize. In some respects I have been waiting twenty-six years, since Lord Percy died. In others, only a few days. When Sir Percival discharged his duty exactly a week ago and told me that your husband had been killed, I knew that this time the recipient of the chronicle would act. You would either come to me or use the chronicle directly.”

Rebecca was stunned. Clarenceux spoke in her stead. “My lady, who is Sir Percival?”

“There are some things you must not ask—because my reluctance to answer might appear as rudeness, even though I conceal these things for your own good.”

Rebecca looked at Clarenceux and then at the dowager countess. “But how did Sir Percival know my husband is dead?”

“That is another thing you must not ask.”

A silence followed. Clarenceux took the opportunity to speak. “My lady, twenty-six years is a long time indeed. But the chronicle only covers the last thirteen. How does it come about that you have been kept waiting all this time? What have you been waiting for?”

Lady Percy's gray eyes rested on her chamberlain near the door. “Mr. Richardson, you may leave us. I will call if I need you.”

Richardson bowed and left the chamber.

“What do you know of Lord Percy, Mr. Clarenceux?”

Clarenceux looked at her. “Henry Percy, earl of Northumberland—he was your husband. I know that he died shortly after the Pilgrimage of Grace. Rumor has it that he first married the old king's second wife, Anne Boleyn, but Cardinal Wolsey broke off their engagement.” He felt like adding that the earl was widely criticized for how much he spent, but thought better of it. It was dangerous enough to broach the subject of Anne Boleyn.

The countess nodded. “It is still a bitterness, even after all these years. It will be until the day I die—and I cannot help but believe it will plague me in purgatory thereafter, for I will never be able to forgive her, even though I do feel sorry for her. What you call rumor is, in this case, common knowledge. But it is important that I tell you the whole story.

“My father was the earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Percy's the earl of Northumberland. In the way that powerful men do, they sealed their friendship with a family betrothal. Lord Percy was fourteen at the time and I was twelve. We did not know one another; we had hardly ever spoken. Not long after our betrothal Lord Percy entered the household of Cardinal Wolsey; and on one journey to court, he met Anne Boleyn, who was then a maid of honor to Queen Catherine. They fell in love. They loved each other for years, exchanging secret kisses and small gifts on his visits to court. However, as far as the old earl of Northumberland was concerned, his son was betrothed to me. Knowing that he would never win his father's approval, my supposed husband married Anne in secret. They were both twenty-one and consummated the marriage shortly after the wedding—so it was fully legal in the eyes of the Church and the law. But they told no one. Not even me.”

Clarenceux noted the bitterness with which she said the last words. He let her continue.

“That was in the year 1522. Wolsey had noticed Henry's love for Anne and he disapproved. He knew that Lord Percy's father, the old earl of Northumberland, would be angry. Then it emerged that the king himself had his eye on Anne and asked Wolsey to separate the two. Wolsey was pleased to obey and dragged Lord Percy back to York, where he reminded him that he was betrothed to me. I knew none of this at the time and simply saw the union of our two houses as being wholly sensible, for it was what my father wanted. At nineteen, it made no great difference to me that I did not know Lord Percy—what wife ever does really know her husband before marriage? I was assured by my mother that he and I would grow to love one another afterward. But on my wedding night, as I lay nervously in bed—a maiden on the cusp of becoming a woman, or so I thought—my supposed husband came to me. It was the first time we had been alone together. He coldly declared that our wedding was none of his will and that it was invalid, for he was already married to Anne Boleyn. He added that he would never consummate our marriage for he loved his wife, and it would be sinful for him to come to my bed. He further declared that he would not give me money for my support and I should seek such sums as I required from my father, who was the architect of his misfortune and mine. And with that he left my bedchamber. He never came back.

“My father wrote to my so-called husband demanding that he make financial provision for me, but Lord Percy refused even to discuss it. My life was miserable—I was treated as an unwelcome visitor at Alnwick, Wressle, and all the other Percy houses and castles. I was provided with a room and the necessities of hospitality, but that was all. He would not even give me sufficient money to clothe myself, protesting that I should return to my father or enter a nunnery. Obviously I could do neither because, in the eyes of the world, I was his wife. Besides, my father was reluctant to accept that his choice of husband was a bad one, even though he knew Lord Percy was failing to provide for me. I did not know what to do, so I just lived as well as I could, spending most of my time alone, reading Holy Scripture and praying that God would take pity on me.

“Then one day, quite unexpectedly, Lord Percy came to me. He had heard that Anne had become the mistress of the poet Thomas Wyatt. He was curiously calm: a strange sort of vindictiveness had overcome him. He would talk about nothing else he felt Anne had betrayed him, and he was sick of his constant thoughts of her. Of course, I had no sympathy, and soon we were arguing again. He even went so far as to accuse me of arranging that Thomas Wyatt should seduce Anne in order to spite him.”

Lady Percy paused. She stiffly got up from her chair and, taking a pair of sticks from the side, walked to the window. Looking out across the park, she went on, “At this distance in time, after nearly forty years, I can see things more clearly. He loved that woman so completely that he was emotionally incapable of loving anyone else. Even though she loved other men, and loved some of them more than she loved him, he never accepted the fact. It destroyed him.”

“Do you not feel angry?” asked Rebecca.

She turned around. “Yes. Of course. But to tell you the truth, I feel greater anger toward the king. He pursued Anne Boleyn for years, as if she was his quarry. She flirted with him and seduced his imagination, and he was enraptured. He forced her to break off with Wyatt, and although she refused to be his mistress, she said she would marry him if he were not married to Queen Catherine. Shortly afterward, in the summer of 1527, the king secretly began arrangements for a divorce. Realizing that he was serious in his desire to make her queen, and worrying that her secret marriage to Lord Percy would become known, Anne panicked. She told the king that she had been betrothed to Lord Percy, but she did not tell him that they had consummated their marriage. The king, being in love, believed everything she said and simply accommodated this new information within his plans. He secured a papal bull allowing him to marry whomsoever he wanted after he was free from Catherine, even a woman who had been betrothed to another man. The only limitation on such a marriage was the condition that the intended wife's first union had not been consummated. Of course, Anne's had, and so she was obliged to keep the truth secret.

“For Lord Percy, Anne's new relationship with the king was heart-breaking. His father died that same year, and although Henry was now the earl of Northumberland, he had no love of life or his title. If someone had run him through with a sword or poisoned him, I think it would have been a blessed relief to him. He behaved strangely, even going to court to give presents to the king simply so he could see Anne from afar. She refused to speak to him. The king, piqued that Lord Percy had once been betrothed to his queen, began to persecute him, forcing him to give up lands and estates. Lord Percy gave the king everything. He just wilted away into a despondent malaise.

“And then, quite quickly, Anne ceased to reign over the king's heart. She was in her mid-thirties, her beauty was fading fast, and her failure to produce a son marked her out as being not favored by God. The king decided that her lack of divine grace showed that she was not to be trusted. Cruel, despicable man…” The countess shook her head, remembering. “Everybody hated everyone else. I hated Anne for ruining my life. I hated my so-called husband. Lord Percy hated me,
and
Anne,
and
the king. And the king hated us all too. Everyone was afraid of him. But as soon as he started to think of getting rid of Anne, Lord Percy suddenly came to life again. He thought he might finally win her…”