Sacred Treason (37 page)

Frustration
will
be
his
downfall. Take your time. Beat off his attacks until he makes a mistake.

Crackenthorpe raised his sword, willing Clarenceux to second-guess his target; but Clarenceux was quick enough to escape the threatened cut. They circled again. Crackenthorpe darted forward a second time, going first for Clarenceux's sword-arm shoulder, then slashing at his throat. Clarenceux was slower to avoid the second cut. The blade just nicked his skin; its closeness was a warning. Crackenthorpe was younger, stronger and faster than he was, and he had no less reach.

Again they circled. Crackenthorpe grimaced with intent as he thrust forward to Clarenceux's chest. Steel edge met steel edge, sparks flying in the candlelit nave. Clarenceux hurled his weight into the blows, seeking to knock the blade out of Crackenthorpe's hand by striking it with force at an angle. But although their blades struck seven, eight, nine times, Crackenthorpe retained a firm grip. He almost strolled around the cave, so consumed by the fight that he seemed to have forgotten it would be his last.

The candles on the altar guttered as the two men swirled around and attacked again. Crackenthorpe—now moving with his left arm outstretched, hoping to catch Clarenceux's sleeve or collar—rushed forward suddenly and thrust his blade toward Clarenceux's chest. Clarenceux parried the blow, stepping to one side, drawing his own blade back across Crackenthorpe's cheek, slicing through the soft skin and exposing the teeth and gums for the instant before the blood welled and started to flow. Encouraged, he brought his sword down with a clang on Crackenthorpe's as the man lunged for revenge. With another blow Clarenceux tried to strike the blade out of the man's hand. But Crackenthorpe was not beaten yet and, seeing an instant of opportunity, darted forward with his blade and stabbed Clarenceux in the left-hand side of the abdomen.

The pain shot through Clarenceux and he crumpled up, losing his balance, staggering toward a column of rock. The servants watching there drew back, horrified and fearful. Clarenceux lifted his head and saw Crackenthorpe's face looking down on him: a vengeful spirit. Clarenceux's own body surged with pain and submerged into the easy weakness of inaction, but the will to inflict a fatal wound on his enemy was still strong. No matter that he had failed to play the game of patience, he would never stop fighting this man. He would fight him in this world and the next.

Crackenthorpe saw the doubled ferocity of his opponent and slashed down with his sword as Clarenceux tried to get up, seeking skin but finding a raised sword and guard. He slashed again and thrust, catching Clarenceux's arm as he knelt on the ground, drawing blood. Another slash, cutting Clarenceux across the ribs. Clarenceux could not bring his sword up quickly enough to defend his body, and threw himself to one side, partially taking cover behind a column of rock as he scrambled to his feet, parrying blows as he did so. Then he too charged, striking Crackenthorpe's sword away and getting in close, forcing Crackenthorpe against another column of rock with his shoulder. He punched upward with the palm of his fist and tried to lift his sword to Crackenthorpe's throat but it caught on Crackenthorpe's leg and he was forced to twist out of the way as Crackenthorpe brought his own sword up and slashed. But Clarenceux was not retreating now. He swept down with a great cry of hatred, slashing and cutting Crackenthorpe in a torrent of fierce blows, slicing the man's face, his arm, and his chest. Crackenthorpe backed away for an instant and then charged back into the scything strokes that meant his death, thrusting and slashing with his sword, hardly hitting Clarenceux's blade but finding his arm once, twice, then his shoulder and his thigh, sending Clarenceux falling again. Suddenly he saw his chance for the kill—one last moment of glory to revel in his strength, his ability to dominate his fellow men, which had been the greatest pleasure of his life. He raised his sword for the final killing blow on Clarenceux's head—only to be shocked by the thrust upward into his throat of Clarenceux's own blade.

Crackenthorpe teetered, hearing the splash of his own blood on the floor, trying to understand what had happened, and at the same time trying to bring his blade down on his victim. But all his understanding, focus, and strength had gone. It had burst out of him. Suddenly Clarenceux withdrew his blade and Crackenthorpe no longer knew why he was standing with his arms in the air, or holding a sword; he no longer knew anything at all.

The sword fell first, and clattered. Then the body collapsed heavily.

Julius's men rushed forward when they saw Crackenthorpe fall but Clarenceux put up a hand. “Leave him,” he shouted, still kneeling. He rose shakily to his feet, breathing heavily. He lifted his sword and paused, looking down at the huge dying man. Then with hatred and fury burning within him, he brought it down with all his force and cut through Crackenthorpe's neck, the metal blade ringing on the stone floor as the head rolled away.

He sank back to his knees. “God is with us, Rebecca.” He pressed his face to the floor.

Clarenceux felt the most intense pain as he was carried back up the spiral staircase into the house. They had to twist his body. “Put me down!” he roared. “Put me on my feet.” Both the men trying to carry him instantly complied. Clarenceux's was a voice to be obeyed—especially when he was in pain.

He panted for a moment, recovering his strength. Then, with his hands on the stone steps, he began to push himself up. A man followed with a lantern. Clarenceux passed the chamber on the ground floor and carried on crawling until he reached Julius's study on the upper floor. The small door was open, and he pulled himself to his feet.

“Go ahead,” he said to the man with the lantern. “Just go straight through to Mr. Fawcett's library. I will follow.”

“Sir, wait, you need help. You are still bleeding.”

“No, not now,” gasped Clarenceux, feeling the pain in his belly increasing suddenly.

He leaned against the doorjamb until he had gathered his strength to walk to the next doorway. Several men were now clustering around him. Halfway across he fell. Two men were quickly at his sides, lifting him. “Help me through to the library,” he said, seeing the light ahead.

Once they had hauled him into the library, Clarenceux once more sought the refuge of the doorway, keeping himself on his feet.

Julius appeared, having run up the stairs. “William, what are you doing? Sit down. I'll have someone carry you to bed.”

“No, Julius. Four or five men will die at noon if I do not hand the chronicle over to Mr. Walsingham.”

“After all this, you are going to give it up?”

“He is going to hang them—at best. He may even have them burnt for heresy. I have no choice. Enough men have died. Enough women too.”

“You cannot be in your right mind, William. Look at you. You have been stabbed in the gut—I can see the blood still coming—and you have two, three deep cuts to your arms and several other wounds, including a cut to the chest. Never mind going to London—how are you even standing up?”

“God is with me, Julius. I am to save these men. He has given me a plan. I need your help. I need you to take me to the city. Take me in a cart if you have to—but, damn it, get me there quickly, before noon.”

Clarenceux's declamatory voice, given force through his pain, echoed in the room and in the minds of everyone present.

At length Julius spoke. “I will accompany you—with as many men as I have spare horses. But first you will let Lychorus dress your wounds.”

Clarenceux gestured to a book press on the far side of the room. A pile of books were stacked at its foot. “Over there, at the bottom of that pile, you'll find the chronicle.”

Julius went over to the pile, took the topmost books off, and lifted the chronicle. He set it down on the table. Once more the golden gleam of a candle touched it. So much of Julius's study had been damaged by Crackenthorpe's soldiers, so many books torn apart, that its intactness gave it a certain aura.

“Thank you,” said Clarenceux, pointing to another heavy vellum-bound volume that was lying on a shelf nearby. It had been mutilated and the cover was loose. “May I also borrow this? I trust you won't be needing it for a day or two.”

Thursday, December 30

No one troubled them on the return to London. If any of Walsingham's men were watching the road, they did not confront Julius and his company of fifteen men.

Clarenceux was carried in a cart, covered in blankets, and was silent most of the way, sometimes biting his lip against the pain. They made a fast pace in the bright morning air. Clarenceux felt confident he would not die; the wound in his abdomen had continued to bleed for a long time but now had stopped. He knew that he should see a surgeon, but he did not even mention the word—and would allow no one else to do so either. There was no time. Besides, the spectre of death by surgery still haunted him, as it did every man who had seen what military surgeons could do. As he knew well, untrained women in rural parishes sometimes performed surgical operations on injured people who then lived. Military surgeons undertook the more complex operations, requiring considerably greater knowledge and dexterity—and half their patients died after a few days. The only explanation was that it was God's will.
We
will
keep
clear
of
surgeons.

At London Bridge, Julius talked to the guards. They were uncertain but could not prevent him and his men from passing. At Bridge Gate the company was simply waved through. But thereafter, they were followed. At Ludgate the cart passed under the arch that Clarenceux knew so well, and rumbled over Fleet Bridge. For a moment it seemed that the nightmare was receding. But Clarenceux reminded himself that it only seemed that way. There was no guarantee that the cold-blooded killing was not about to resume.

They stopped outside the house in Fleet Street. Clarenceux threw off the blankets and signaled to Julius to knock as he maneuvered himself to the edge of the cart and let himself down onto the ground. He glanced at the following guards, who had remained at a safe distance. Two of Julius's men supported him as he tentatively walked toward his front door.

It did not open.

Even
if
all
my
servants
have
left, Walsingham should be here. And he should have the prisoners with him. And why are those guards watching?

“Knock again.”

A minute went by. This time the door did open. A gaunt, white-haired old man with a deeply lined face looked out nervously.

“Thomas, I
am
glad to see you.” Clarenceux could not help but smile.

Thomas's eyes alighted on Clarenceux and his face lit up. His expression was beyond mere happiness. “Sir, I had given up hope! I thought…Oh, Mr. Clarenceux, sir!” And in his emotion he rushed forward and knelt in front of Clarenceux, and kissed his hand.

Clarenceux pulled his servant to his feet and embraced him gently. “Thomas, a fine welcome, for which I thank you heartily. But tell me: is anyone else at home? My wife? Nurse Brown?”

“No, sir, I am here alone. Nurse Brown has left the city. The other servants have not returned. But Mistress Harley and your daughters are well, sir, and still with your sister-in-law in Devon. Your house is not yet fit for their return. I came back to do what I could to mend things, but much has been damaged.”

“Thomas, my heartfelt thanks. Has Mr. Walsingham called in the last day or so? Or anyone else of his following?”

“No, sir, no one. I have been here all the time.”

“I see.” Clarenceux looked along the street to the west and saw the carts and packhorses approaching the city, and the street vendors, water carriers, and milk carriers. He turned and looked the other way, toward the city wall and Ludgate, the bridge, and the broken shape of the tower of St. Paul's. Walsingham's guards were still watching him from just this side of the bridge.

“Julius, what time is it?”

“About noon, I would say, William. We are on time. The bells will ring soon.”

“It would appear that I have been deceived. Francis Walsingham has defaulted on his part of our bargain. But he is acting under the protection of Sir William Cecil, her majesty's Secretary. What would you advise me to do? Go to Walsingham's house by the Tower? Or pay a visit to Mr. Secretary Cecil?”

Clarenceux did not wait for an answer. Instead he turned and, pointing west, limped back to the cart, aided by Julius's men. “Go with God, Thomas,” he called as the cart jolted and began to move westward. “I will be back later. And thank you.”

***

It was only a short journey from Fleet Street to Cecil House, in the Strand. Julius rode ahead through the gates and into the courtyard. When the gatekeeper sought the meaning of the intrusion, Julius calmly asked that the man announce the arrival of Mr. William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. Without waiting for a refusal, he led all his men up to the door of the grand house.

“For heaven's sake, can't you see this man is in great pain?” he snapped at a servant who stood in their way and dared to suggest they should not enter without being invited.

“Then he needs a surgeon. Sir William cannot satisfy you on that score,” the man replied indignantly.

“No, but Sir William has many other scores to settle with me,” replied Clarenceux, his arms on the shoulders of two of Julius's servants. “And he will need more than mere surgery if he fails.”

After this exchange, twelve of Julius's men accompanied their master and Clarenceux into the great hall of Cecil House while the other three remained outside, looking after the horses in the front courtyard.

A minute later Cecil came into the hall. His eyes went straight to Clarenceux. He saw that another gentleman was present, dressed in a similar black robe.

“My greetings on seeing you, Clarenceux, would be glad and hearty, but today you come unexpectedly and accompanied by men I neither know nor trust.”

“That, Sir William,” replied Clarenceux firmly, “is because you trust the wrong men. Or let me be particular. You trust Francis Walsingham—a man who has tried to kill me, who has allowed a royal sergeant-at-arms to murder a boy in my service, William Terry, as well as an old man, Henry Machyn, and this gentleman's chamberlain, Mr. James Hopton—this gentleman being Mr. Julius Fawcett of Summerhill, Chislehurst. Forgive me if I appear rude by not waiting to be invited into your hall, but you and I have too much talking to do to waste time on courtesies.”

“Then tell me, Clarenceux, what is your explanation for the charges of high treason against you?” Cecil's eyes settled on Julius for a moment, then returned to him. “Correct me if I am wrong, but you have failed to produce a seditious document in your keeping, you have harbored others guilty of the same crime, you have resisted arrest, murdered two servants of the Crown, and—worst of all—you have sought to encompass the overthrow of her majesty the queen herself. That is treason as laid out in the Great Treason Act of Edward the Third—you cannot deny it.”

More of Cecil's men were coming into the hall, six servants in his household livery and eight guards wearing breastplates. Julius's men were now outnumbered, and, standing around Clarenceux, they began to feel uneasy. But Clarenceux himself did not flinch.

“Sir William, you do not know this, but I will tell you freely. You can add to that list of crimes that I have killed not two but five so-called ‘servants of the Crown.' Last night I killed the sergeant-at-arms, Richard Crackenthorpe, in a duel, and I led two of his men to their deaths. I believe their names were Fraser and Ridley. If you want proof, Crackenthorpe's head is in the back of the cart in your front courtyard.”

Clarenceux looked at Cecil, daring him to speak. But Cecil was taking his time. Suddenly Clarenceux's declamatory voice filled the room, rising with the emotion of the remembered killings. “And do you know why I killed Crackenthorpe? Because he had sworn to slay me for accidentally killing his brother. It was a personal matter. These men might have been paid by the Crown, but they were not acting in its interests. They were serving themselves, using their royal authority to further their own ends—to bully, intimidate, steal, rape, injure, and murder the queen's subjects. That is what you do not understand, Sir William. And nor does Francis Walsingham. You are too far removed from real events to see it. There is no plot. I repeat:
there
is
no
plot
. It is all a figment of your terrified imaginations. You, in your great house, with the ear of the queen—what do you know about the way other people live their lives? You are so sheltered from danger you fear every gathering of men is a conspiracy. Walsingham and Crackenthorpe—acting supposedly under instructions from you—have killed a number of people who never sought to overthrow the queen. They may have had their secrets, but they were not revolutionaries. Now I want revenge for…” But Clarenceux could not go on. The thought of Rebecca caused him to flounder in a sea of despair.

Cecil was shaken but he remained in control of himself. “Then explain to me the meaning of the chronicle of Henry Machyn. You cannot deny you have seen it and have possession of it.”

“I agreed to hand it over this noon to Francis Walsingham at my house. It would appear he does not want it, for he defaulted on our agreement. He did not attend. That is how seriously he takes your plot, Mr. Secretary. But more, let me tell you that he guaranteed the lives of the men he has mercilessly imprisoned in return for this book. Where are those men? As it happens, the book does indeed refer to a secret document that would enable the overthrow of the queen. I am sure I only need mention the marriage of Lord Percy and Anne Boleyn and you will know exactly what I am talking about. You are one of the few who will understand how serious such a plot
could
have been. But this was a secret to be kept, not a plot to be enacted. However, if I do not have Walsingham at my house in Fleet Street within the hour—with all those whose freedoms he has promised—and with you in attendance, then I will give myself over to bringing it about. And I will give my dying strength to undermining the authority you have built up and which Walsingham exercises in your name, and which Crackenthorpe exercised also, because I am sick to my very soul with the deaths of innocent people.”

More men were coming into the hall, alerted by Cecil's servants. But Julius's men stood their ground.

Cecil walked forward, toward Clarenceux. “There is no plot, you say?”

“Not if you do not want there to be one.”

“You mean,
you
are the plot.”

“No, Sir William. Upon the life of my daughter—your wife's god-daughter—there is no plot. I have possession of a chronicle, that is all. And that chronicle gives me certain knowledge that you understand and I understand, but which Francis Walsingham does not understand and very few would.”

Cecil held his gaze for a long time. When he eventually spoke, his voice was low. “Very well. Today is your day. As long as you can guarantee that, the future is mine. Do we have a bargain? Do I have that guarantee?”

“We will see—if Walsingham complies. You have my word.”

Cecil turned to a man standing nearby. “Find Walsingham as quickly as possible. Tell him this, exactly: if he has made an agreement with William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms, he is to observe it in its minutest detail or face a charge of high treason. Tell him to hand over the prisoners he has promised by two of the clock, on pain of death and forfeiture of his estates. Tell him that exactly as I have said it to you.” Cecil turned to Clarenceux, “And rest assured, William—I hope I can call you William still—if Walsingham fails, then you may have his head, to add to your collection.”

Clarenceux tried to bow but the pain in his abdomen prevented him. “I am grateful for your trust, Sir William.”

“Good. My men will escort your company to your house and I will see you there at two of the clock.”