Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy) (40 page)

The authors Grafton and Stow were actually at loggerheads about the use of Stow’s information. In fact, all the sixteenth-century books quoted in this novel are actual texts—including Grafton, Agrippa, and Gratarolus.

I stated in my
Time
Traveler’s Guide to Elizabethan England
that the cauliflower was introduced to England at a dinner for the Privy Council in 1590, but subsequently I noticed one in Joachim Beuckelaer’s painting in the National Gallery, Four Elements: Fruit and Vegetable Market (1569) and another in a work by the same artist dated 1564, so clearly they were available in the Low Countries in the 1560s.

Religion is perhaps the most important and most difficult contemporary detail, and it is a subject I have tried to reflect more accurately than most of the historical novels set in the sixteenth century, which tend to downplay the spiritual values of the age. Some people have expressed surprise that my character behaves as he does, that he has no secret cynical side that allows him to sidestep his religious convictions when it suits him. I find their surprise extraordinary. For a start, atheism as we know it was not really possible in the 1560s. A few people had been accused of being “against God,” but as I have written in my Elizabethan
Time
Traveler’s Guide
, not believing in God was like not believing in trees: the physical and the metaphysical could not be divided. People were deeply involved in the religious quest: the majority of books published in the sixteenth century were of a theological nature. This is out of keeping with the secularism of the twenty-first century; it is difficult for modern people to understand. However, there is a comparison. The religiosity of the sixteenth century was powered by an ardent quest for truth. So too is the atheism of the present day. I am not referring here to the mindless sort of atheism espoused by those who have no concern for anything other than shrugging off religion in the hope of freeing themselves in some way or other from organized religion’s limitations. I am referring to those who positively seek the truth, who wish to understand the nature of life on Earth as desperately as a Catholic in the sixteenth century would have sought God’s will, and who are not satisfied with explanations that depend on the Old Testament or any other religious text.

When twenty-first-century atheists are challenged as to their lack of belief in God, their faith in God’s absence often proves as unshakable as sixteenth-century faith in God’s presence: convinced atheists and people following a religious quest are not dissimilar in that respect. In Clarenceux’s searching questions about why God makes the righteous suffer, and his skepticism of how one man can order another to change what he believes, I hope I have provided a sixteenth-century struggling spirit who, on the one hand, is true to the religious standards of his time, and on the other, is an adequate metaphor for both the religious searching soul and the inquiring secular mind of today.

(Ian) James Forrester (Mortimer)

I did not include an acknowledgement page in either of the first two volumes of this trilogy,
Sacred
Treason
and
The
Roots
of
Betrayal
, so I hope readers do not begrudge me using this page to thank a few people for their help bringing the whole trilogy to fruition.

My first acknowledgement of gratitude is to someone I don’t know. In the late 1990s an editor at the
Oxford
Dictionary
of
National
Biography
sent me a standard commissioning form asking me to write a new entry for the chronicler or “diarist,” Henry Machyn (d. 1563). In the course of the research undertaken to fulfill that commission, I discovered much more about Henry Machyn than was previously known (published in full by the
Sixteenth
Century
Journal
in 2002). In particular, I found that he left his “cronacle” (as he called it) to William Harvey, Clarenceux King of Arms (
d.
1567). I also discovered a reference to the informal sixteenth-century London association or group of friends who called themselves the Knights of the Round Table, of which Henry was a member. It was that reference which first inspired these novels. Obviously there have been many other inspirations along the way—people and places, personal situations and stories—but the very first spark came from that research. So, a big thank you to whoever it was at
ODNB
who sent me that commission.

My agent, Jim Gill at United Agents, deserves a round of applause for taking the first book,
Sacred
Treason
, and finding a publisher when it was still unfinished. I’m very grateful to him for that vote of confidence. Also I am grateful for the foreign rights agents at United Agents, Jane Willis, Zoe Ross, and Jessica Craig, for the encouragement they have given me in selling these books to foreign-language markets.

A very big THANK YOU goes to Martin Fletcher of Headline Review, who commissioned the trilogy and whose enthusiasm for the story in
Sacred
Treason
and the two latter novels has been inspirational. I am also very grateful to Martin’s colleagues at Headline Review, especially Samantha Eades, not only for helping produce the books but for being so imaginative in finding ways to publicize them. Also to Joan Deitch, who copyedited all three books—and who had to contend with the vagaries of my style. The whole team at Headline has been wonderful.

Thanks to Suzannah Lipscomb for the tour of Hampton Court, and to Susannah Davis for all the references to “Mam” and “Dad.” Thanks to my brother, Robert Mortimer, of the London Fire Brigade, for advice about how burning buildings consume oxygen.

I am grateful to a few of my neighbors and friends for helping inspire various characters’ appearances and mannerisms in these books, especially the first two. I won’t name all the names—but you know who you are. One person I will mention: I am particularly grateful to Andy Gardner, whose conversations in the lanes around Moreton—when he has taken the time to stop his van and chat—have been one of the most pleasing aspects of the process. No doubt Raw Carew will find another ship soon and sail off into the sunset.

I began with an anonymous thank-you and my penultimate one is also to someone I don’t know. At an event in Newbury, Berkshire, in 2011, a member of the public came up to me and told me about her house. There was a hiding place in it, a priest hole, and she had lived in the house for many years before she found it. I do not know who she was or where the house is, but the story lodged at the back of my mind. Readers of this book will realize how much I gained from that little detail.

Finally, and most of all, I wish to thank my wife, Sophie. I am grateful for her support and encouragement. She has, at the same time, lifted my spirits and kept my feet on the ground—not a mean feat. I walk all the taller because of her.

Read on for an excerpt from
Sacred Treason,
now available from Sourcebooks Landmark.

Tuesday, December 7, 1563

It was a cold day for a killing. The Scotsman, Robert Urquhart, rubbed his hands and breathed on them as he waited in Threadneedle Street, in London. Watching the door to Merchant Taylors’ Hall, he clutched each finger in turn, trying to keep them supple, his grip strong. He cursed the gray December skies. Only when two men appeared at the top of the steps, walking very slowly and deep in conversation, did he forget the chill in his bones. His victim, William Draper, was the one on the left—the jeweled gold collar gave him away.

He studied Draper. Narrow face, gray hair and beard, about sixty. Not tall but well dressed, in an expensive green velvet doublet with lace ruff and cuffs. Eyes like a fox. He looked selfish, judgemental—even a little bitter. You could see how he had made his money: with an ambition as cold and biting as this weather, and with as little remorse.

Urquhart watched Draper pull his cloak close and wait, standing on the bottom step, above the frozen mud. The man continued talking to his less well dressed companion. The carts and pedestrian traffic of the street passed in front of them, the snorting of the horses and the drivers’ breath billowing in the cold morning air.

It could not be done here, Urquhart could see that. Not without risking his own arrest. That would be as bad as failure. Worse—for he knew her ladyship’s identity. They would torture that information out of him. Arrest would simply require her ladyship to send another man, to kill him as well as Draper.

He walked to the end of the street and looked back casually. A servant led a chestnut palfrey around the corner from the yard and held it steady, offering the reins to Draper who mounted from the bottom step with surprising agility. Draper offered some final words to his companion from the saddle, then gestured good-bye with a wave of his hand and moved off.

Westward. He was going home.

Urquhart started forward, walking briskly. He felt for the knife in his belt, the dagger in his shirt sleeve, and the rounded butt of the long-barreled German wheel lock pistol inside the left breast of his doublet. He hoped he would not have to use it. The noise would bring all London running.

He followed his victim to his house in Basinghall Street. Four stories high and three bays wide, with armorial glass in the windows. He waited outside for some minutes then drew a deep breath and slowly exhaled, taking a moment to reflect on his mission.

He climbed the few steps to the door and knocked hard. A bald man in knee-length breeches answered.

“God speed you. An urgent message for the master.”

The bald man noted the Scottish accent. “Another time, sir, you would be right heartily welcome. Alas, today my master has given instructions that he is not to be disturbed.”

“He will see me. Tell him I come with a message from her ladyship. It is she who bids me seek his help.”

“Regretfully, sir, I cannot disobey an order—”

“You are very dutiful, and that is to be commended, but I urge you, look to your Catholic conscience, and quickly. Her ladyship’s business is a matter of life and death. Tell Mr. Draper I have traveled far to see him in his capacity as
Sir
Dagonet
. He will understand.”

The bald man paused, weighing up his visitor’s appearance and demeanor. He looked at his shoes, dirty with the mud of the street. But the visitor seemed so confident; Mr. Draper might well be angry if he turned away an urgent communication brought by a Scotsman. “Wait here, if you please,” he said, stepping backward into the shadows.

After several minutes he reappeared. “Mr. Draper will see you. This way.”

Urquhart followed the servant along a dark passageway, through a high hall, and past a pair of large wooden benches piled with bright silk cushions. He noticed a gilt-framed portrait of the master of the house, and another of a stern-looking man in an old-fashioned breastplate and helmet—Draper’s father, perhaps. There was a big tapestry of a town under siege at one end of the hall. Above the fireplace were two brightly painted plaster figures of black women in red skirts, their exotic paganism allowing the plasterer to bare their breasts shamelessly. Here was a whitewashed stone staircase. At the top, a picture of the Virgin. Finally they came to a wide wooden door.

“What is your name, sir?” asked the bald man over his shoulder.

“Thomas Fraser,” Urquhart replied.

The servant knocked, lifted the latch, and pushed the door open. Urquhart crossed himself. He loosened his sleeve, felt the hilt of the dagger, and entered boldly.

The room was long, oak-paneled, and warm, and had an elaborate plaster ceiling. Two fireplaces in the far wall were alight, the blazing logs held in place by polished silverheaded firedogs.

The servant turned to his right and bowed. “Mr. Draper, this is the Scotch esquire who has come on behalf of her ladyship. His name is Thomas Fraser.”

Draper was sitting behind a table at one end of the room, looking down at a piece of paper. Urquhart saw the same narrow face and gray beard he had seen outside the hall. He stepped forward and bowed respectfully. He heard the door shut behind him and the latch fall.

“You come from her ladyship?” the merchant said softly, looking up. There were tears in his eyes.

Suddenly Urquhart felt nervous, like a boy about to steal silver coins from his master’s purse.
Why
the
tears?
Was
Draper
expecting
him?
But there was just one thing to do and the sooner it was done the better.

“Sir,” he said, taking another two steps closer, so he was barely six feet from the table. “I come with an instruction from her ladyship.” He reached for his dagger.

Suddenly a deep north country voice called out from behind him: “Hold fast! Move no further!”

Urquhart turned. Behind the door as it had opened had been a huge, bearded man dressed in a black doublet and cloak. His hair too was black and curled. In his early thirties, he had obviously seen action on more than one occasion. A livid red mark stretched from above his right eyebrow to his right ear. On his left hip he wore a silver-handled side-sword, and he was holding a pistol.

For one throb of his pulse, Urquhart was motionless. But in that moment he understood what had happened. Her ladyship had been betrayed. He did not know by whom, or how, but it left him in no doubt what he had to do. The instant he saw the scarred man move his pistol hand, he pulled the dagger from his sleeve and hurled it at the man’s chest. The next instant he rushed toward him, one hand reaching out to grab the pistol and the other fumbling for the knife at his own belt.

When the gun went off, Urquhart was moving forward. And then, suddenly, he was on his side, the report echoing in his ears.

Only then did he feel the pain. It was as if his scream of agony was a sound formed within the severed nerves of his left thigh. There was a mess of blood and torn flesh. He could see splintered bone. As the sliced nerves and the sight of the shreds of bloody meat combined into a realization of one single, hideous truth, he gasped and raised his head, dizzy with the shock. The rip his dagger had made in the black cloak and shirt revealed a glint of a breastplate. The man was drawing his side-sword.

“You are too late,” the north country voice declared. “Our messenger from Scotland came in the night. Mr. Walsingham knows.”

Urquhart screamed again as the pain surged. He thumped the floor, unable to master the feeling. But it was not the wound that mattered—it was the failure. That was worse than the physical hurt. It did not matter that he was a dead man. What mattered was that his victim was still alive.

Eyes blurred with tears of shame, he thrust his hand inside his doublet for his own pistol. The scarred man was too close. But he forced his trembling hands to respond and drew back the wheel of the lock. Gasping, he twisted around, aimed at Draper’s head, and pulled the trigger.

The noise of the gun was the last thing he heard. An instant later the blade of the side-sword flashed through his throat and lodged in the back of his neck, in the bone. And then he was suffocating and tumbling in a frothing sea of his own blood.

It was not an easy death to behold.