Sacred Treason (12 page)

In the darkness of the stable, lying in the dung on the floor, Thomas managed to slip his right hand out of the rope knot. He had been struggling for hours to free himself. His shoulder ached; his skin was chafed and painful with the rope burns. Will had been just eleven years old. He had told them all he knew. And then they had killed him anyway.

He had died screaming for his mother.

The men had demanded to know where the book was, and no one could tell them anything. The other servant boy in Clarenceux's household, John Wrightson, had shouted out, weeping, that it was no longer in the house, so they beat him, making him watch as they hanged Will. And despite Thomas's shouts and pleadings, they had hoisted the boy higher and higher, as his legs kicked frantically and he tried to breathe.

He had died slowly. The moment he went limp, Thomas felt his heart break. Until that instant, he had not believed they would kill him. He thought about his nephew, Will's father, and the day Thomas had proudly told him he had found his son a position in Clarenceux's household. How happy they had been. They had gone to drink wine at a tavern.

Thomas gasped, tears rolling down his face as he released his left hand from the rope.
Wherever
my
master
is, if he still be alive, please let him return. And may he take revenge on these killers.

Sunday, December 12

Clarenceux was on his knees in the darkness, where he had been for hours, praying even after he had lost all feeling in his body.

Anxiety was simply a cloud he had flown through. A golden chariot, pulled by six white swans, was taking him up into a blue sky and showing him the world laid out beneath him. He could see the thousands of churches across Europe, all tiny, far below, as if he were an angel choosing which one he would visit. There were many more Catholic ones than Protestant, he realized. The sickness of faith lay here in England.

No, the woman who was holding the swans' reins seemed to say, pointing to his own parish church, St. Bride's, and all the people coming out of its doors.
It
is
not
a
matter
of
which
faith. All faith is righteous. It is unbelief that is the sin, warring against faith. This is the pattern of death: you will be lifted up into heaven; we will sing in the heavens. And those who choose not to be lifted—who choose to oppose God—will remain on earth, nothing but rotting food for worms.

They began to descend. Peering between the clouds he could see the River Thames, with its hundreds of boats moored on the sparkling water. The gatehouse on the bridge was opening for the day. The bells were ringing. And among the people leaving their houses early in the morning air was Goodwife Machyn, striding purposefully along the street to the market, which was just beginning to gather in Cheapside. Outside his own house a cart was passing. His family was all still indoors. They were happy there, even though they were without him. God's blessing had come upon them all. They knew he had passed, or was passing, into heaven.

At that moment, as he turned to the beautiful driver of the swan chariot, he could not look at her. He did not dare. She was the Holy Ghost. She had been sent to guide him.

A shout somewhere in the house above jerked him out of his reverie. He felt the cold again and was in more pain than before.

Men were running upstairs. Perhaps it was the servants at daybreak? But if it was daybreak, then he had only a few hours to live. The creature inside him shriveled up, his fingers frozen, curled. He buried his face in his arms and placed one wrist across the other, making the sign of the cross with his arms.

Even though he could see nothing, he could feel the sign there, made with his own body. He raised his arms, keeping them hard against each other. This was the emblem of the faith.
His
faith. It was a dark sun that shone even in the deepest night.

The rebirth of the light. Despite his pain, he felt reborn. As sure as life was life itself, he knew that he, not Walsingham, was in the right. And nothing could ever make it any other way.

The sound of a bolt being shot broke the silence on this, the day of his execution.

“You. Harley,” the man called. He came down the steps and nudged him firmly with the side of his foot. “Get up,” he commanded. He pulled the collar of Clarenceux's doublet, attempting to drag him to his feet.

Clarenceux forced his legs to straighten. He was still kneeling on the stone step, both legs numb.

“Get up, God damn you!”

The man was almost strangling him. Clarenceux reached out and gripped the man's arm.

“Leave off me,” the stranger commanded.

“Give me an arm, then, for pity's sake,” croaked Clarenceux. His voice surprised him. Parched with lack of drink, sleep, and food, it sounded somehow different. Transformed. Capable of understanding power: absolute and immense power.

The guard said nothing but gave him his hand and helped him to his feet.

Clarenceux stumbled up the cellar stairs, staring into the light, placing one hand on each step. He could not help but stare: he simply felt drawn to the light, leaving the cellar, leaving the darkness of the cold night.

Suddenly he felt the pain of a fist against his jaw. The blow sent him sprawling down the passageway. He heard Crackenthorpe's voice. “Mr. Walsingham is going to give you one chance to redeem yourself. If you fail, you will be put to death.”

Clarenceux's head was swimming. He felt sick. He stayed where he was on the floor, with the dust on the floorboards before his eyes, his head pounding with pain.
What
chance
is
this?
He heard footsteps elsewhere in the house—men running down stairs.
Are
they
coming
for
me
too?
He could see the legs of just two men: Crackenthorpe and the man sent into the foul cellar to fetch him.

“The bells have just rung seven of the clock. You have until this evening, at eight of the clock, to produce Henry Machyn's chronicle. If you do not, you know what will happen.”

Clarenceux lifted his head and stared at the uneven whitewash on the stone wall. So he was not going to be killed straight away…His mind moved slowly through the realization. They were letting him go home so he could fetch the book and give it to them. That meant they did not find it themselves.

The thought of what it might mean made Clarenceux's head spin more, and he retched. He tasted bitter bile in his mouth. Crackenthorpe took a quick step and kicked him in the stomach.

“Do not spew on Mr. Walsingham's floor.”

Clarenceux turned to face him. “You do not need to do this. No master would require it of a servant.”

Crackenthorpe tensed at the word but said nothing. He looked away, impatient for Clarenceux to get to his feet. Clarenceux reached out and put one hand on the wall, and pushed himself up off the floor with the other.

“Eight of the clock?”

Crackenthorpe nodded. “You heard me.” He gestured to his accomplice to move Clarenceux outside, and he followed as the soldier put Clarenceux's arm over his shoulder and manhandled him along the corridor. They turned a corner and Clarenceux could see the freedom of the door.

Never in his life before had sunshine looked so good. It seemed heavenly.

It was over a mile back to his own house in St. Bride's from Walsingham's, near the Tower. It was a slow journey. The pain in his knee forced him to stop regularly, and his arms and head ached. Along Lombard Street, he felt weak and had to sit down on a step. A member of the Skinners Company caught his eye—a man he knew by sight but not by name. Nevertheless, the other man's awareness that they belonged to the same livery company was enough; he offered to have Clarenceux carried back in a chair to his house. Clarenceux declined; he wanted to keep his thoughts to himself and to keep thinking them through. So he borrowed a shilling from the man for an eel pie and thanked him for his kindness.

The pie tasted wonderful. Normally he would have said an eel pie from a street vendor was not worth giving to a pig, but at that moment he felt touched by grace. He was free, and the taste of over-salted eels was blissful in his mouth. A few minutes later, when he reached the conduit in Cornhill, he drank water—the most blessed water his lips had ever touched.

A miracle had taken place. That was the only way it could be described. As he leaned over the conduit trough and rinsed his face, he reflected on his extraordinary turn of luck. He had prayed and prayed; he had prepared himself to be tortured and killed, and God had saved him. Divine providence must have stayed the hands of the men searching his house and protected the kitchen boy who had not revealed the whereabouts of the chronicle, so that it remained a secret. Was the miracle his decision to put the book in the sack of oats, or the turning of the eyes of the men searching his house? It did not matter. It was beautiful, however it had taken place. It brought tears to his eyes.

Although Clarenceux was standing before the conduit, in the middle of a wide street, surrounded by the chatter of people coming to and going from the market, he lifted his hands to heaven. He closed his eyes and gave thanks. After savoring the moment, he opened his eyes and walked on. With the sun shining, he felt he was recovering, with God's help.

Crossing the Fleet Bridge he glanced at the weight of water rushing through, swirling as it made its way into the Thames. That gave him an idea: he too would travel south. He would take Awdrey and the children down into Kent, to the house of his good friend Julius Fawcett, who had a small estate near Chislehurst. Julius would shelter them, at least until all this misunderstanding could be cleared away. There too he could give thanks for his safe delivery from Walsingham and Crackenthorpe.

He walked on to his house.

The front door was slightly open. Clarenceux pushed it and saw the rushes from the hall strewn on the stairs and a broken bench in the passage leading to the service rooms on the ground floor. The bottom of a painted earthenware jug lay on its side on the stone flagstones inside the front door, a few fragments on the stairs where it had been cast down. Otherwise, there was silence.

Clarenceux climbed the stairs one by one, feeling the pain in his knee as he lifted his right leg but anxious to see the state of his hall. Clearly Walsingham's men had been ruthless in their search. So how was it they had not found the chronicle?

At the top of the stairs, he noted the cresset lamp was untouched, its wick and oil still in place. But as he lifted his eyes to the room, the destruction shocked him. He could see the pieces of his mirror on the floor, the candles where the soldiers had stamped on them, even the smashed plasterwork above the fireplace. The paintings were broken: the wooden panels had been knocked out of their frames and splintered. Someone had placed an unbroken candlestick on the elm table, as if to try to reclaim something civilized from the wreckage. But apart from that, everything was in disarray.

“Awdrey,” he called. “Awdrey!”

His voice echoed in the cold house. He glanced at the fireplace; only the slightest wisp of smoke rose from the hearth. They had smashed the plasterwork but they had not gone so far as to burn the house or to scatter the burning embers. They could easily have done so, and set light to the rushes and the whole street. This destruction had not been without care; it had been controlled.

Clarenceux stepped slowly down the back stairs toward the wine puddle across the flagstones outside the buttery. He stopped. He could hear something.

“Is there anyone here?” he called, hearing the fear in his voice.

There was no reply. Only a distant choking sound from someone in one of the rooms ahead.

Clarenceux bit his teeth hard against each other. Overcoming the pain in his knee, he continued down the stairs and approached the buttery. He came to the door and looked in. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness within, he began to recognize smashed kegs and barrels.

This had not been a search; this had been an exercise in intimidation.

He heard the choking noise again. He turned away from the buttery and came to the door that led to the kitchen. Thomas was sitting with his back against the wall, the body of his fair-haired great-nephew in his lap. His face was soaked with tears, his shirt pulled out of his breeches, his jerkin torn, and his doublet ripped down one sleeve. There was blood on his face and on one arm, and he was sobbing.

At first Clarenceux just saw Thomas, rocking and crying over the boy. It took some moments for him to understand that the lad was dead.

A sickening feeling rose through his body—far worse than Crackenthorpe's kick to his belly, for it rose from within himself. He was responsible for this. He had entrusted Will Terry with a secret too great for his safety. He steadied himself with a hand on the frame of the door.

“They killed him,” said Thomas, staring at his great-nephew's face. “They hanged him, in this kitchen. There was nothing any of us could do. They would not listen.”

Clarenceux felt as if all the blood pulsing in his body had turned to regret. He looked around for the barrel of oats and saw it lying on its side, its contents spread on the floor. Clearly the book had gone.

“Mr. Clarenceux, I feel…” Thomas looked up at him, struggling for the words. “I…I must—must have revenge. If I do not…I will be a broken man. Will was like my own son. He was a good lad. He served you well. And they killed him. Why could they not have chosen me?”

“Thomas, we are not broken men. We will take revenge. I swear it. Tell me what happened.”

Thomas shook his head, trying to control himself. “It was chaos after you were arrested. Goodwife Machyn came down from your room and said you must have hidden the chronicle in the service rooms, as you had come from that way. She insisted that she remove the book from the house. Your wife was in agreement. Will…” He broke off, clutching the dead boy in his lap.

“Go on.”

Thomas sighed again and ran his hand over the boy's cheek. “Will was terrified of Goodwife Machyn: she was shouting and her hair was flowing all over her face, like a wanton woman. But when Mistress Harley told him to obey, he showed Goodwife Machyn where the book was. She took it and fled, not saying where she was going. And then, hardly ten minutes later, the soldiers came. They were led by that man with the scar.”

“Crackenthorpe.”

“Him. He and his men rounded up everyone in the house. They held us in the hall while they searched the upper chambers. They left us just one candle. Mistress Harley was with us, and the children were crying. Emily was crying too. Nurse Brown was doing her best to comfort the girls. Will and John were terrified. I stood with a hand on each of their shoulders. Then the soldiers came down, angry because they had found nothing. Their captain—Crackenthorpe—told Mistress Harley to take your daughters upstairs, and she tried to object but he threatened to force her, and she complied. We heard her shriek when she went upstairs; I don't know why. Some of the soldiers laughed, and one tried to lift up Nurse Brown's skirts. Crackenthorpe then asked how old Emily was, and on being told she was not yet eleven, he ordered that no one was to touch her, but the one who found the chronicle would be the first to lie with Nurse Brown.”

“So they resorted to hanging a young boy,” said Clarenceux. He felt the anger rising within him.

“When they had looked everywhere and destroyed everything, they led us down here, into the kitchen. But not the mistress and your daughters: they stayed upstairs. The captain slung a rope over the beam and told us what he was going to do. He said he was going to hang one of us unless we told him where the chronicle was hidden. At this, John, who was fearing they might hang him, yelled out that it was not in the house anymore. The scarred man did not believe him: he thought he was trying to fool them. So he pointed to Will and told John he was going to hang him…”

Thomas's voice gave way to a howl. Clarenceux felt pity burning in his breast. Thomas had no children of his own and had taken charge of his great-nephew. No more would there be a bright-eyed lad in his life.

“The boy died screaming, struggling, and terrified. For mercy's sake, Mr. Clarenceux. He was shouting for his mother and imploring me to save him. And one of the bastards held a knife at my throat all the time; I could do nothing.”

“I feel for you, Thomas. But where are the others? Where are my daughters now?”

Thomas wiped his face. “Mistress Harley has taken them to her sister's house, in Devon.” He paused, looking up at Clarenceux, for a moment regaining his servant's intuition. “They were not harmed. I think Mr. Walsingham must have given very precise orders concerning the women.”

Clarenceux nodded. Walsingham had probably ordered that his wife and daughters not be harmed because of their connection with Lady Cecil. Even so, he knew they must have been terrified. He shut his eyes and said a prayer for them. When he opened them again, his eyes were wet with tears. Stepping forward, he knelt down, put a palm on the cold brow of the dead boy, and silently said a prayer for him too. When he had finished, he crossed himself and said, “We must go and tell his father.”

Thomas reached out and gripped Clarenceux's wrist firmly. “Mr. Clarenceux, we must have our revenge.”

“We will, Thomas. I will do what it takes, whatever it takes.”

Thomas looked into Clarenceux's wet eyes. “You are a good man, Mr. Clarenceux. I will tell Will's father you are a good man.”

“I try to be. But I have failed.”

Thomas held his gaze. “No, Mr. Clarenceux. You are a good man. And I must tell you, there is a message for you. You must find out where Sir Arthur was on June the thirteenth, 1550. Before the soldiers left, they took me into the stables. They tied me up in there. They said they were going to burn me and the horses alive—they seemed to think I knew where the chronicle had gone, even though I said I did not. But they didn't burn anything. After some hours I worked my bonds loose and escaped. And when I came out of the stable there was a woman in the yard. She asked me to give you a message. ‘Tell him Sir Lancelot will meet him where Sir Arthur was on June the thirteenth, 1550.' That was all.”

Clarenceux stared at Thomas, struggling to take in this news. The death of the boy, the chaos of his home, and now these threats of burning had shocked him so much that he did not realize straightaway that the woman in the yard must have been the wife of Sir Lancelot. Then, slowly, the various names fell into place. He pictured her. He remembered that the first entry of the chronicle had mentioned a meeting on or about that date, between Machyn and one John Heath—perhaps some kin of Lancelot Heath. But still his mind was unclear. Where had they met? He could not recall.

“Thomas, are you sure you have no clue as to where Goodwife Machyn has gone?”

Thomas shook his head.

Clarenceux tried to get up. It was difficult, as his knee could not take the weight and he had to steady himself against the wall. “I'll do what I can. But I cannot promise things that are not in my power to deliver.” As he said the words, he looked down at the face of his old servant. Leaning over, he put a sympathetic hand on the man's shoulder. Thomas looked up.

“You do not know what lies in your power and what does not, Mr. Clarenceux. You do not know how much grace God will give you, what trust He will place in you. If you are a man of God, what you promise will happen. I know it.”

Clarenceux took a deep breath and placed his hands over his face momentarily. Then he looked down at the boy's broken body. “I have done nothing wrong, I have committed no treason, and yet I have had my servant killed, my house wrecked, and my family cast out. Believe me, Thomas: I will make them pay for this. Even if I have to commit a crime to end this tyranny, I will commit it again and again. I am not going to let Will's death go unpunished. In my mind I have cut out their tongues and put out their eyes. I will let the Devil have their souls and dogs eat their hearts. They have made an enemy of me. I no longer want to be innocent.”