Sacred Treason (13 page)

Rebecca knelt on the floor of the small chamber, resting her forehead on the frame of the bed. She was quietly humming a tune to herself—not a tune she had heard anywhere in recent years but notes that seemed to go together in a comforting way: a sort of rhythmic lullaby. At the same time she ran the beads of a rosary through her fingers. The notes of her tune were her prayer.

She heard shouts from the house across the road. A man was hammering against the wood of a door. Men had been coming and going there since last night. They had given up all pretense of it being a plague-infected house; the boards had been removed and the door left open, guarded by one or two soldiers.

She did not stir. It hardly felt like her house now. It was a place in the past, where once she had lived. It had become a place for soldiers, not her. Nor Henry.
Mary, mother of God, save him from the men who are searching for him, protect him from them—and from all adversity, suffering, fear, and pain.

She stopped and crossed herself. She had been fortunate, getting back here to Mistress Barker's house. She had been almost the last person allowed back into the city by the watchmen on the gate. She had been lucky that they had not recognized her in the fading light. She had been even luckier to have found the chronicle in Clarenceux's house. Most of all she had been lucky that Mistress Barker had welcomed her back into the house. She could have kept the door shut, for fear of being caught, but she had not. She was a kind and loyal friend.

The chronicle lay on the bed. It had been important to get it out of Clarenceux's house. She had understood that only she could save him and his family. Mistress Harley wanted to do everything
her
way, but she would not have had the wit to find the chronicle; she was too much taken up with fearing for her daughters. As for old Thomas, he would have waited for orders.

It had been the right thing to do, bringing it here.

Henry Machyn did not know where he was. The dimly lit brick cellar could have been anywhere. He could hear a slow drip into a puddle—a drop falling every eight or nine seconds. It seemed the water clung to the brick for as long as it could before falling. That was like his soul now: clinging on for as long as it could, just waiting for the final release.

He remembered his grandfather's death. He and his brothers had been very young at the time, playing on the riverbank upstream from the mill. Their father had arrived unexpectedly and told them all to come quickly. The old man was dying, he said. It seemed that the next moment they were all standing formally at the foot of their grandfather's bed as he gave them his blessing. Henry had thought to himself,
How
does
he
know
he
is
dying?
They had said their good-byes in all politeness and kissed him, and they had gone back out to play by the river. An hour later, their mother appeared to tell them the old man had gone to heaven.

Heaven. All his life, he had hoped to see heaven. All his life, he had feared he would be cursed for his sins and not allowed by St. Peter to pass those gates. But in these last hours, he had seen how cruel men could be. Nothing he had ever done in his life compared with this torture. God would see in his heart that he had never meant to hurt another man—and yet these vile animals were capable of enjoying a man's scream as they cut strips off his flesh and poured salt into his wounds, or took pliers and pulled off his fingernails. Or tied him onto a gridiron and placed it over a fire. Through all these things, one thought alone had comforted him: that he had betrayed no one. As long as he said nothing, his path to heaven was assured, even though that path led through a valley of fire and darkness.

When he was arrested by Crackenthorpe, he had believed Clarenceux had betrayed him; but as soon as they started questioning him, and slicing the skin off his back, he knew that he had been wrong. Clarenceux was not to blame. They wanted to know where his chronicle was and they would not have asked that if Clarenceux had told them. They wanted to know where Rebecca was; she too must have stayed in hiding. Now all that remained to be done was to let them break this frail mortal body and release his soul.

He heard footsteps outside the door and took a deep breath. Still the anxiety was there, even after all this pain. But this time the soldier would suspend him from a rope and break his legs. That was what he had been told. Like his grandfather, he knew his time had come. True, there would be no one standing at the foot of his bed. His brothers were long since dead, his son abroad, his wife in hiding. But he was about to die. And it was good. God would see it happen—and see that it was an honest departure from the world. In its own small way, his passing would be triumphant.

The door opened. The warder entered with a coil of rope. Henry Machyn crossed himself. “Go with God, my Knights of the Round Table and King Clariance,” he whispered. “My son, John; my wife, dear Rebecca; go with God. Harry Machyn, be bold.” Then, with a trembling voice and tears in his eyes, he began to sing.

Amid the scattered pages and split wood, Clarenceux lifted the broken spine of a leather-bound volume and looked at its desecrated contents. He put it down. So many folios had simply been pulled from his books…

The portrait of his father was missing. He searched the debris and found a corner of the frame under a torn piece of printed text. Pulling at it, he realized the painting had gone. A flash of red on the floor nearby caught his eye, however, and he moved a volume that was covering it. His father's scarlet robe, right eye, and the right-hand side of his face looked back at him. The cut in the top of the wood showed that they had forced the painting out of its frame and split it in two.

Clarenceux turned to the window. Practically the only thing in this place they had not broken was the glass.

He thought about Awdrey. She had clearly had no hesitation in leaving London. He was not surprised: she was not running away; she was simply protecting their daughters. She must have taken money from the house, and presumably she had Nurse Brown to help her; but nevertheless, it was a brave step for a woman to set out to travel a long distance without male company. The highway inns were never comfortable. Women traveling alone were vulnerable. Local constables did not want to deal with the pleas of strangers, especially when they were directed against men they knew. If a crime took place, constables often empaneled a jury of the accused man's friends, who would acquit him as being of good character. Landlords tended to charge women higher rates too to make up for the fact that a woman could not be expected to share a bed with other travelers.

That was the first thing he needed to do: to make sure Awdrey was safe and well. For a moment he thought of going after her himself.
But
it
is
impossible; I cannot search for the chronicle and Lancelot Heath while traveling down to Devon. I will have to send Thomas, as soon as he has attended to his family duties. Riding hard, he will be able to catch up with her in two days. A neighbor's boy can look after the other horses while he and I are away. I presume the other servants will not return until they know this house is safe.

Clarenceux saw one of his own manuscripts on the floor, its leaves partly torn out of their binding. He lifted it and set it carefully on what remained of the table board.

But
what
about
money? From the looks of things, Crackenthorpe's men have taken all there is. I cannot even sell anything, for everything I possess is broken.

He went to a small, overturned wooden box in the corner of the room. There was no sign of the coins that it formerly contained. A few minutes searching revealed a single gold half-sovereign that had escaped the attention of Crackenthorpe's men, concealed by a loose vellum deed.
That
will
suffice
for
Thomas's expenses while he rides after Awdrey. I myself will have to rely on friends
…

But
what
friends
will
support
me?

Clarenceux caught a glimpse of the rawness of his position. He would not return to Walsingham with the chronicle: he could not, even if he wanted to. But he would not return empty-handed either. He would have to go about the city in hiding from now on. Crackenthorpe would have to find him.

He stood and breathed heavily, concentrating, trying to form a plan.
I
need
to
find
the
chronicle: that has to be the first thing. Goodwife Machyn will have hidden in a place where she knows I will find her. She will want me to find her, to protect both her and her husband. She has no other protector…except Mistress Barker.

He remembered her face and imagined her running through his house with the book under her arm. She was an intelligent and strong woman, despite her air of sadness.

I
will
find
her,
and when I have the chronicle, I will go down to Chislehurst. It will be safest to leave the city. Julius will provide me with food and some money. Then I can return to the city and seek revenge for the killing of Will Terry and the disappearance of Henry Machyn, as well as the destruction of my home.

He looked at the door and saw the splintered edge of the wood, its cold reality, and felt that this was not his house any longer. He no longer had any possessions or any place of comfort. From now on, nothing could be taken for granted.

Walsingham walked briskly along the corridor to his parlor. He was angry. The journey back from Westminster had irritated him—and he had already been annoyed with Cecil. Now there was Crackenthorpe's latest failure. Further explanations would be necessary.

He flung open the door and sat down at his writing table near the window. After a few seconds he got up again, walked over to his plate of sweetmeats, took one, and then put the plate back down. The sweet tasted bad; he took it out of his mouth and flung it into the fireplace. It hissed in the burning logs.

He turned to the mirror and began to stare at himself, to interrogate himself, as he often did. He looked at each garment he was wearing: black doublet, black jerkin, small ruff with a high collar, black skullcap. Then he looked into his own eyes. He concentrated hard to see what lay behind them, inside the skull.

Walsingham frowned. He
was
the queen's purpose. And Cecil's too. That was his life. He was the method. His whole being—from his intuition to his imagination—was the tool that kept Cecil safe. He had drive, cunning, and intelligence. The great entity that was the divine queen, Elizabeth of England, was not just a woman: it was him and Cecil and thousands of other men who made Elizabeth great and all-seeing, all-powerful, and favored by God. Just because Crackenthorpe could not find the chronicle did not mean that Clarenceux was not hiding it somewhere. He, Walsingham, would find it. He would show Clarenceux that he was the controller of his fate.

He stared deeper.
But
what
if
I
am
wrong? What if it was a coincidence that Machyn was found in Clarenceux's stable? No, it cannot have been a coincidence. Clarenceux was at Machyn's house—both in the night and the next morning. And between those two events Machyn was found.

Then
where
is
that
damned
chronicle?

“Mr. Walsingham,” came a voice from the door, “Sergeant Crackenthorpe has returned. He wishes to see you.”

“About time. Tell him to come in.”

Before Crackenthorpe even entered the room—even before he saw the short figure of Walsingham standing there by the mirror—he heard the stark accusation in the small man's cold, quiet voice.

“You failed me.”

“Mr. Walsingham, I am—”

“Stay silent! I will not be interrupted. To say I am angry does not begin to state the case. Machyn's book was in Clarenceux's house and you let it slip away. You are like a cannon too large and powerful to be of any use, too heavy to move or direct against a target, too cumbersome, too stupid. How many mistakes have you made? First you killed that Scotsman—and before you say anything, I know he was about to kill Draper, but he would have been much more valuable if you had kept him alive, if you had struck his hand, not his neck, with your sword. Then you pretended that Machyn's house was suddenly somehow infected with plague, in December—after a whole summer of the fearful visitation—bringing all London to look at it. Now you have failed to find the chronicle.”

“But in my judgment—”

“No! You will not answer; you will listen. I had to order you to release Clarenceux because you failed to find that book. How am I to locate it without him? Heavens! My enemies are more useful to me than you are! Traitors are more compliant, more obedient. In fact, your incompetence is so great that I am sorely tempted to charge you with treason.”

Crackenthorpe listened and said nothing. All of this was unfair. Nevertheless, he would get his revenge before the end of the conversation. He would let Walsingham speak himself out and then he would make him eat his words. He had the means to do it tucked inside his doublet.

Walsingham continued. “Machyn was at Clarenceux's house the night before last. If he did not give him the chronicle at that time, then he did so on some earlier occasion—it was not in Machyn's house when you started searching and yet Clarenceux has admitted he has seen it. So, at some point between Machyn's arrival and the search of Clarenceux's house, the chronicle was moved. Where to? Were any of the servants missing when you went back to Clarenceux's house after escorting him here?”

“No. There were two boy servants, a maid, the old man, and—”

“If one of them had taken the chronicle elsewhere, they had returned to the house. I take it you interrogated them all?”

Crackenthorpe glared at him. “Machyn's wife took the chronicle. My men are still searching for her.”

“Machyn's wife? So where are Clarenceux's family and servants now? I presume you are keeping a watch on the house.”

“They do not have the chronicle. As I said, Rebecca Machyn took it. I turned over everything in that house that could have contained it.”

“But they know where it is, Sergeant Crackenthorpe. Or they know where she is. One of them must. What did you do to find out what they knew?”

“God damn you, Francis Walsingham, I hanged one of them!”

There was a long pause. “You what?”

Crackenthorpe looked around the room, as if seeking some refuge. Seconds passed. He turned to face his accuser. “I hanged one of the boys. I was as sure as you are that they knew where the chronicle was. So when one of the boys said that Machyn's wife had taken it, I decided to force him to speak. I strung up the other boy from a rafter in the kitchen. They all shouted, screamed, and raved, and yet no one said a thing about the chronicle, even when the boy was at the point of death. If any of them had known, they would have talked.”

Walsingham stared at him.

Crackenthorpe continued. “It is clear that Machyn's wife must have been in the house between the time I arrested Clarenceux and my return to search the building. She was the one who removed it. The old man told me when the boy was nearing death.”

“Did you have to hang him? It is very difficult to pass a hanging off as accidental. Or self-defense—especially a boy.”

Crackenthorpe shrugged. “You should not complain. This way you win twice over.
You
have the information, and
they
will not forget that I am prepared to kill in pursuit of the truth.”

“You fool! There were witnesses. You could be arraigned before the justices. And then I will have to step in and save you again. Only this time, I think I am not going to bother. It will save me a lot of trouble just to let you go to the Devil.”

Walsingham took a deep breath and walked across the room to the window overlooking the Tower. He stared at the grim walls. They were like a mirror to his mind. His eyes saw the crenellated stone but his thoughts saw his soul.

Crackenthorpe enjoyed the silence. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He had weathered the storm and now he could advance. “As I said, I do not know where Machyn's wife is. The servants did not know. But they knew it was she who took the book. I tried to get the old man to tell me where she was but when the boy died the old man became more difficult. I hit him and bloodied his face, and threatened to burn him alive in the stables—he still said nothing. But if she is hiding with someone, I know where to start looking.”

“You do?” Walsingham was suddenly interested.

Crackenthorpe reached inside his doublet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, stepped forward, and placed it on the table. Walsingham picked it up and took it nearer to the window. One glance over the badly formed letters told him exactly what it was: Machyn's will, written in his own untrained hand on the eighth of November, just one month ago.

It was much more than just a will, however. It was evidence, beautiful evidence. It mentioned several bequests to his wife, Rebecca, and his son, John. Then it read:

I do give and bequeath unto Master Clarenshux all my skochyns and my Cronacle and the rest of all my goodes Cattelles Debtes plate jewelles Readie money after my Debtes paid my funeralles Discharged and Donne.

Walsingham looked at Crackenthorpe. “He left Clarenceux his chronicle. That comes as no surprise. But his escutcheons? His plate and jewels? And all goods and chattels? It is most strange that he did not leave his silverware and jewels to his wife or his son. Instead he left them to a herald—a man not only wealthier than him, but of a wholly superior class.”

Crackenthorpe felt a deep satisfaction. “Read the rest.” Walsingham looked back at the paper. A few lines later, after a bequest to his wife, Machyn had written:
I
make
ordaine
and
name
Lancelott
heth
Citizen
and
paynter
stayner
myne
oversear.

“Lancelot Heath,” muttered Walsingham. He continued. The last passage read:

In witnes hereof I the said Henrie Machyn to this my present Testament and Last will have sett my hande and seale dated the Daie and yere firste aboue written Witnesses to this will both at the ensealing and Delyvering of ye same.

Walsingham almost hesitated to read the names, such was his sudden pleasure at this discovery. Crackenthorpe watched him: this was clearly what Walsingham liked best—the thrill of the chase, a new clue.

Walsingham cleared his throat. “Here are the names of the witnesses: Lancelot Heath; William Draper, merchant taylor; Nicholas Hill, ironmonger; Michael Hill, merchant taylor; and Daniel Gyttens.” Walsingham nodded toward Crackenthorpe. He paused, considering the man who had given him the document. “You have done well. I still maintain you should not have let the chronicle slip through your fingers. You certainly should not have killed a boy. But this goes a long way to making up for your miscalculations.”

“I think those are the names of the Knights of the Round Table.”

“Yes, I would not be surprised. Including Clarenceux and Machyn himself, that amounts to seven men. Rather more than William Draper was prepared to let on. He mentioned only four: himself, Machyn, James Emery, and Lancelot Heath.” Walsingham set the will down on the table. “I thought he had told us all he knew. But there was more.”

“In my experience, Mr. Walsingham, there always is.”

Walsingham looked at Crackenthorpe. “I believe that is the nearest thing to a profound statement you have ever made.” He went over and lifted the tray of sweetmeats and carried it to Crackenthorpe. “Here, take them all. A small reward. Later you and I are going to visit Mr. Draper and have words with him. You will speak to his mortal body. And I will speak to his immortal soul.”