Sacred Treason (40 page)

No one spoke.

“We will keep it from now on,” said Nicholas Hill coldly, taking the document from James Emery. “We were entrusted to guard it and we will continue to do so.”

Clarenceux did not move. “No. You will leave it with me. I gave Sir William Cecil a promise that I would look after it in return for your lives and property. If it leaves my possession, none of us will be safe or trusted ever again.”

Emery broke away from the group and walked across to the window. It was beginning to grow dark. Clarenceux glanced at Rebecca. She had not moved but sat staring ahead. Nicholas Hill looked closely at the document, but he could not read it in the dying light. He passed it to his father, who glanced at it and set it carefully back on the table in front of Clarenceux.

“I think Mr. Clarenceux's counsel is wise,” said Michael Hill. “We are not men of action. Nor are we revolutionaries. None of us can use this document.”

Robert Lowe looked at Rebecca. “I wish you and your husband had never met. You and he have made me feel like a gullible, easily led man. I don't expect to get an apology from you in this gentleman's house, but next time we meet…” He looked at Clarenceux, bowed briefly, said “Good day to you,” in a polite but cold voice, then turned and walked to the door.

In silence they listened to his rapid footsteps on the stairs.

“I think we should leave too,” said Michael Hill, looking at his son. “Mr. Clarenceux, please forgive us for what must appear to you ingratitude. It's just that for years we have prepared ourselves to face imprisonment and death for the sake of this secret. That gave us strength throughout our recent ordeals. Even in the Tower I knew that my suffering had a greater purpose—that it would bring about a change. It is difficult for me to accept that there will be no change. But I know that I should be grateful, and I am grateful—doubly so on behalf of my wife and son. On all our accounts, I thank you.”

Nicholas Hill said nothing. He simply went to his father, put his arm around him to support him, and led him to the door. Emery followed them, without a word or a backward glance.

Clarenceux and Rebecca listened to the men going down and the front door closing. The light in the hall was growing dim. Neither of them spoke.

“Are you going to talk to me?” he asked after a while.

“What is there to say?”

“What happened in Hackney?”

“I don't want to tell you. What happened is between me and those men's consciences. It is over. Forgotten.”

Clarenceux leaned forward. With the light fading rapidly he could only indistinctly see her face. She was not looking at him. “Shall I ask Thomas for a light?”

“No. The darkness is good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it hides my tears.”

Clarenceux felt reprimanded, chastened. There could be many reasons for her tears but the most obvious left him feeling guilty. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

He sat back again. “Rebecca, what is on your mind?”

She sighed. “After it was all over they put me in a brick cellar. It was cold and damp. I wanted to die. And in those dark hours I saw myself as I truly am: a poor widow. I have no money, nor any trade. I cannot continue Henry's business. No one would want to marry me with nothing to my name. My best hope is to become a servant in Mistress Barker's household and there end my days.”

She paused, wiping her eyes.

“I realized there in that cellar how much I was fooling myself, being with you. You are married; you cannot protect me. I am no one's woman: no one's daughter, no one's wife, no one's mother. Any man with a knife and the inclination can violate me and walk away. Who will defend me? What is my word against a man's when no one will speak up for me? I was fooling myself by pretending that you and I have something in common, that I could share something with you as my husband did. It wasn't true, and it isn't true.”

Clarenceux closed his eyes. “You are not just a widow, Rebecca. You are a much-loved woman. And you have much love to give too. In the church, at Hackney, you said we would fight them with love.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“No. I am glad that you said it. I am glad of your closeness to me. Lying next to me all those nights, I wanted your respect so much that I never touched you, even though I longed to. And in the church, your words urged me to be strong—for you as well as me. I kept thinking of you on the way back to Summerhill. On that journey Crackenthorpe told me you were dead, and the very thought caused me so much pain, so much…”

“What has happened to Crackenthorpe?”

“He is dead.”

“You killed him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“You do not need to thank me.”

“Nevertheless, you have avenged Henry's death as well as my ordeal.” She paused, nervous, trying to find the right words—words that she could bear to hear herself saying. “They kept me in the cellar where he died. Walsingham's guards told me. They also told me about what they did to him before they killed him—cutting strips of skin off his back, burning him, and other terrible things.”

They fell silent. One church bell began to ring in the distance. Very soon other bells were ringing too, including the bell of St. Bride's nearby.

“Will you go down to Devon to find your wife tomorrow?” Clarenceux felt the pain in his abdomen and shoulder, and remembered what difficulty he had had just walking up the stairs and across the room. “Not tomorrow, no. It is a long way. But soon.”

They fell silent again.

“What will you do with Lord Percy's document?”

“I have not had much time to think about it. I have to keep it safe. Sir William Cecil wants me to guard it for him.”

“He will use you. He is a cunning man.”

“Maybe. But it is still in my possession. And we are still alive.”

“Under the rule of a Protestant queen.”

Clarenceux lifted his hand. “Don't say that. Don't be like the others. You told me that you did not want a revolution, but only to be safe. That is what you have got.”

Rebecca smiled weakly. Then she realized Clarenceux could not see her face in the darkness of the hall, so she leaned forward and took his hand in hers and gave it a little squeeze.

“Yes, and I am grateful. I just wish there was something I could do for you to make you as grateful to me.”

He felt for her hand and held it in his. “You have already done enough. You saved my life. You worked out the sequence of letters in the book. You gave me strength in Hackney Church. Most of all you are still alive. I saw what a world without you looks like, just for one night, and it was so cold. I do not want to see such a world again.”

“Sweet words, Mr. Clarenceux. But you understand my meaning, I am sure. Your wife will soon return, and when she does, you will be glad. She will not want me around, and nor will you. I understand now.”

“What do you understand?”

“You. And her. After Crackenthorpe arrested you, in this room, she and I talked upstairs in your study. And I did not understand then what it is about her that you love. The two of you seem so different. At times on our travels I thought perhaps you do not love her. But now I see that you do. For you, love is a matter of honor—just as it was for Lord Percy. He could not change and nor can you. Honor, duty, love, respect—all these things are the same to you. You are intrinsically loyal—you protect those you love as a matter of duty and those you love depend on you. You have built your own world around yourself, and you will defend it with your life.”

“And now you too are part of that world.”

“No. No, I am not. And I never can be. I was—but only while you were alone and in need of me. Now I must stay away from you. For both our sakes.”

The prospect of being apart from her all the time was an emptiness. “This afternoon, Rebecca, sitting in this seat, I was alone for a short while. And I found myself reflecting on all the events of the last week. And I thought of all the people to whom I am grateful. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I owe more to you than to anyone else. It's not just that I owe you my life; it is everything you—”

“But that is what I am saying, Mr. Clarenceux. You cling to the past. For you the past is one long series of triumphs, adventures, and splendor, and wondrous proud moments and honorable gentlemanly things. You genuinely love the past. For me the past is not something to love. It is hunger, through not having enough bread. It is pain, the loss of three babies. The loss of my husband. Can't you see that?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

Her voice was urgent, convinced of her rightness but struggling with emotion. “The big difference between you and Francis Walsingham is that the past means little or nothing to him. For him only the future counts; and he does not love it, he fears it. I am like that too. I fear the future, I really do.”

Clarenceux shook his head. “I don't know. But the bells will ring soon. Will you stay here tonight? I do not know if I have a bed left intact. But you are welcome to it if I do.”

“Mr. Clarenceux, thank you, but I will take my chances. I cannot stay here any longer. Not with you.”

Clarenceux wiped his face with his hand. “I know that it is selfish and unfair of me to say so but I cannot agree with you. I need you—”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux, you need your wife. You love her. Imagine she were threatened—nothing would stop you defending her. Whatever you may feel at this moment, you know you would never forgive yourself if you let her be hurt. I can see now that you never touched me because you were protecting her, your marriage, and everything else that you believe is right and good and proper; everything else which is part of the life you have built around you.”

Clarenceux suddenly knew that she was right. It struck him straight to the bone. He looked for some way to persuade them both that she was wrong but knew that he would be lying if he tried, and doing her a disservice as well as himself.

“Where will you go?”

“I will find somewhere. Home maybe. Or someone's stable loft.”

“Stay here, Rebecca.”

“Is Thomas here still?”

“Yes, downstairs. I told him I would call if I needed anything. But—”

“Then he will look after you. You don't need me.”

“Rebecca, please.”

She rose from the chair in the darkness and bent over him, and kissed his forehead. “Good-bye, Mr. Clarenceux.”

He looked up and saw the outline of her face. “Rebecca, I…” But he could not find the words. “I am sorry if I have hurt you. I never meant to upset you…I still want to make you happy.”

She put her hands either side of his face. “I know. That is the one thing I cannot forgive you for.”

And then, second by second, she was further from him, further away and leaving. She was walking across the room, feeling her way. He heard her steps on the stairs and then the front door opening and closing.

Clarenceux sat alone in his hall, in the darkness, his face wet with tears.

Lady Percy was sitting in her dark chamber at Sheffield Manor. She had been in the same chair all afternoon, looking across the park, hoping to see a messenger. None had come. A little rain had fallen, and the clouds were heavy in the sky as the evening drew on. Still she sat, waiting.

After a while Benedict Richardson came with a lamp. She was unresponsive and declined his suggestion that she should eat. After a few more questions, to which she made no reply, he reached out to close the shutters to the window.

“Leave them,” she commanded.

“But my lady—”

“You may go.”

He looked at her and at the empty fireplace, then bowed and withdrew.

Lady Percy's thoughts had sunk into darkness with the passing of the day. No message had come. The Knights of the Round Table had been betrayed—she felt it. And with them she too had been betrayed. It seemed to her that the flame that had scorched her all her life, burning her through the years, had suddenly gone out.

She looked for her sticks by the light of the candle that Richardson had left. She set them before her, stood up, and walked to the window. Slowly she leaned forward and rested her head on the frozen leaded glass.

Out there, in the cold darkness, the queen of England's rule held strong. Lady Percy knew it as a dark reign: a reign without true light. But it seemed to her at that moment that what lay beyond the window was less significant than what lay on this side.

“I am a Talbot and I am a Catholic,” she whispered to the glass, “and I will never give up hope. I swear by almighty God and this great darkness in which He has wrapped us, I will have my revenge. It is my destiny. That will be my changing from maiden to woman, not my marriage.”

She remained at the window for some minutes before turning and slowly shuffling along an unlit stone corridor toward her bedchamber.

Clarenceux remained in his chair for a long time after Rebecca left. Minutes turned into quarters of an hour, and the first hour came to its silent end in the darkness. Eventually Thomas came up to the hall bearing a candle.

“Thank you, Thomas.”

“Mr. Clarenceux, sir?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“Will things return to normal now? Are you going to stay?”

“Yes, I am staying.” He sighed heavily. “When I have regained my strength, you and I will go down to Devon and bring back Awdrey and the family. Then things will be more or less as they were before.”

“That is good, sir. It would be good if things got back to normal. There is one mattress that was not too badly damaged in the guest room. I picked up all the feathers and stuffed them back in as well as I could before I sewed it up. It should suffice for a few nights.”

Clarenceux looked up at the old man in the candlelight. “Thank you, Thomas. Thank you for all you've done for me.”

The servant bowed his head. “Sir?”

“Yes, Thomas?”

“I was wondering, in my time going to Devon and coming back, what was the meaning of Henry Machyn's chronicle? It has been much on my mind.”

“The meaning of the chronicle?” Clarenceux thought back to when he had received it, to Henry Machyn's worried face. He thought too about the moment when he had seen his study wrecked, with parchment and paper all across the floor and his father's portrait smashed. Then he had seen the wood of the door in a new real light, as if he had no possessions but was fighting his way through the world, and the whole world was a strange place. He thought too of Walsingham's cellar and of searching for Rebecca in the cold churchyard. Finally his mind rested on the image of Rebecca herself, declaring to him that she was unimportant and had nothing, but still determined to go her own way.

“The meaning, Thomas, was
esperance
.”

“Sir?”

Clarenceux smiled. “It was the last word in the chronicle. It means hope. In all our struggles, the last word is hope.”