Sacred Treason (17 page)

“We will go to Mile End,” he said. “We will pick up the money left with your sister and take the ferry across to Greenwich. There, we can hire horses to take us to a place in Kent where I am known.”

“When you say ‘we,' I take it that you do not mean all of us,” said Lancelot. “I intend to go my own way as soon as you have left this place. I will return to London when everything has settled down.”

Clarenceux looked at him warily, considering Heath's position. After a long delay, he said, “I agree. The more of us there are, the more conspicuous we will be.”

“Why not let Goodwife Machyn come with me?”

Clarenceux felt the sponge pause on his scalp. He said nothing.

“I will go with Mr. Clarenceux. I need his help to find my husband.”

“In that case, may I make a suggestion?” Lancelot said. “Or, rather, two. First: when you travel, go on foot. At least in town. People always look to see who is riding; they assume that people on foot are of no consequence and ignore them. The second is that you travel as man and wife. People will be less suspicious of a woman traveling out of town with her husband than a woman in a man's company.”

Clarenceux looked up at Rebecca. She caught his eye momentarily. “Gawain Heath thought we were man and wife when we arrived,” she said. “It makes sense.”

“What was your maiden name?” Clarenceux asked.

“Lowe.”

“We shall travel as Mr. and Mistress Lowe. After we have supped here, I will fetch the chronicle from where it is hidden—alone. Mistress Lowe, you will go to the sign of the Rising Sun in Mile End and wait there for me. I will join you as soon as I have recovered the chron—”

Suddenly there was a creak of the floorboards outside. All three stopped and looked at the door. There came one knock, then another, and a third.

Clarenceux felt himself tense, holding his breath as he waited.

Eventually the last knock came. Lancelot exhaled and went over to the door to unlock it. He took the bowl of pottage that Gawain had brought for them and the basket from under his arm. Clarenceux sniffed the air suspiciously but the pottage did not contain meat.

Rebecca noticed him inhaling but mistook his purpose. She squeezed out the sponge and dabbed once more at Clarenceux's wound. “Smells good, doesn't it?” she asked.

Cecil was sitting beside the fire when Walsingham arrived. He had just been handed a letter in code and was about to read it. He gestured to Walsingham to seat himself on the wide wooden seat on the other side of the fire.

Walsingham was impatient. He was annoyed at finding Cecil more intent on reading a letter than listening to him; he wanted to tell him the news. He suspected that Cecil was trying to annoy him but did not rise to the bait. Instead he raised his eyes to the ceiling to look at the newly completed plasterwork and the frieze. The paneling was fine too—he approved of the red and gold highlights on the edges of the panels.

Then his impatience got the better of him.

“Sir William, I have news that I think you should hear sooner rather than later.”

Cecil set down the letter. “Come then, Francis, tell me. What is it?”

“Several things. The first is that Clarenceux has confessed to having seen Machyn's chronicle. I did arrest him and was interrogating him while his house was searched. However, in an unguarded moment when the house was left unwatched, Machyn's widow took the book away. She has not yet been found—”

“Machyn's
widow
?”

Walsingham shifted uneasily on the seat. “Under interrogation—”

“He was in his sixties.”

“He confessed to entering and leaving the city by way of a blacksmith's house—a man by the name of Mason, he said. I have not yet identified the exact house. However, a search of Machyn's premises did reveal his will. In addition to William Draper, it names Lancelot Heath—the man about whom Draper spoke. It was also witnessed by two men by the name of Hill and one Daniel Gyttens—men whom Draper failed to mention in his confession. We are searching for them now.”

Cecil pondered. “This news is hardly earth-shatteringly important, Francis. In fact, I would go back to reading my letter but for the fact that you said you had interrogated Clarenceux. What did he tell you?”

“He said nothing about the plot except that Machyn was a friend of his and he had seen the chronicle. He pretended not to know that Machyn was in his stable. He was lying, of course. He said nothing about William Draper or Heath.”

“What did he say about me?”

“Only that he believed you would protect him.”

“And did you say that you were working for me?”

“No.” Walsingham hesitated slightly. “Of course not.”

“Is he still in custody?”

“No. I released him in the hope that he would lead me to the chronicle.”

“And did he?”

Walsingham realized he had walked straight into one of Cecil's traps. How had it happened? Talking to Cecil was like rowing along a mountain river: suddenly you realized you were in white water, struggling to stay afloat as you were swept along between the rocks of his knowledge, until you were becalmed in a pool, having inadvertently said something that was both secret and true.

“There are other factors, Sir William. In the course of searching Clarenceux's house, Sergeant Crackenthorpe unfortunately killed one of the servants. It seems that in revenge, Clarenceux sought out Crackenthorpe's own brother and killed him, blinding another of Crackenthorpe's men in one eye at the same time.”

Cecil's voice betrayed his surprise. “Quite the soldier, our herald.”
Especially
considering
the
man
has
not
been
under
arms
for
nearly
twenty
years. Lord Paget did tell me once that Clarenceux was the best herald because he was the only one who understood how soldiers think, having been one himself.
“Where is he now?”

“That I do not know, Sir William.”

Cecil stood up. “That is the real news, isn't it, Francis? You have allowed the man whom you suspect to be the chief architect of this plot to go free, having failed to secure the chronicle. And you have seen to it that he has put himself outside the law. He is hardly likely to come to me for help now. We have lost him.”

“But we have the names in Machyn's will…”

“And so does he, if he is the protagonist you think he is. He has all he needs. He can go into the north and proclaim a rising in the name of Mary of Scotland, and he has whatever secret this damned chronicle holds as well.”

“He is under instructions to deliver the chronicle to me by curfew.”

“He will not. Killing Crackenthorpe's brother puts the matter beyond doubt.
I'd
be scared to show my face at your house if I'd killed Crackenthorpe's brother. What about Machyn's body?”

“I've told the jailers to bury him in a plague pit, befitting his state as the late owner of a plague-infested house.”

“Foolish. Give him the dignity he deserves. He was an old man, and he buried many members of the gentry and aristocracy with lavish and kindly displays. He deserves better than a plague pit. And Clarenceux?”

“What about him?”

“No. What are
you
going to do about him?”

“I am going to continue looking for him. Crackenthorpe has posted guards on every street corner in Queenhithe ward. He is desperate for revenge.”

“If he finds Clarenceux first, you'll be interrogating a corpse.” Cecil paused. “What time did you release him?”

“About seven of the clock. Why?”

“I want to know. Is there anything else you need to report?”

“No, Sir William.”

“Not even where Lancelot Heath might be?”

“I regret to say I have no information on that matter, Sir William.”

“I regret it too. I expect you to do all you can. And more. He may be as important as Clarenceux. Together they may be more important to this plot than the chronicle itself. Go now, and good luck.”

Cecil watched Walsingham leave the chamber. He turned and looked into the fire.

Francis
released
Clarenceux
eight
hours
ago. If he had interrogated him the previous evening and said nothing about me, why did Clarenceux not come to me as soon as he was released?

He stood up and walked the length of the chamber. He tapped his fingers on the panel at the far end, then turned and walked back to his table.

There
are
two
possible
reasons. One is that he now knows Walsingham has my protection and is working under my direction. The other is that he really is guilty.

Cecil stopped walking.

Perhaps
both
are
true.

In his velvet cap and old robe, Clarenceux left the tavern to return to the warehouse. He looked up at the old church of St. Swithin's on the other side of the road and glanced both ways along Candlewick Street. No one seemed to be looking for him. He decided to walk toward Dowgate, where Skinners' Hall was situated, and then along past the church of St. Thomas the Apostle. He pulled his robe tight, wishing the cold was not so extreme.

The thought occurred to him that, as a warden of the company, he was well known by those coming and going from Skinners' Hall. Walsingham might have bribed his fellow liverymen to watch out for him. But the fact that he had to get to Queenhithe forced him in that direction. Caution was necessary; fear, a mere hindrance.

He looked into the faces of those he passed, quickly shifting his gaze if they made eye contact. He glanced ahead and saw a man loitering by St. John's Church, rubbing his hands against the cold. He was not tall but small-framed, ill-at-ease, and wearing a side-sword. Was he one of Crackenthorpe's men? And the armed man on the other side of the street—was he?

Clarenceux turned and walked swiftly into Dowgate, as if going to the hall. He could turn off right and head along the back street past St. Michael's Church, then cut through to Little Trinity by the alleys in Garlickhithe. He felt his breathing becoming faster. Turning into the lane, he saw another two men on the corner of the road opposite the church.
They
are
guarding
the
boundaries
of
the
ward.

He stopped. Instantly, he realized that he might alert them by the very act of stopping. He hurriedly bent down as if to refasten the buckle on his shoe and looked back to the Skinners' Hall. The sweat on his brow chilled his face. If he went on, he would have to walk past the waiting men. He could not do that: they were looking for him, and the risk of being caught was too great. But if he went back, how was he going to get to Queenhithe?

He retraced his steps, breathing hurriedly, expecting the men at St. Michael's to come after him at any moment. There were more people in the street and a couple of carts too. But the men guarding the ward would not care who saw them make an arrest; no one would intervene. He felt the pain in his knee and wondered if he could run. Not fast enough. Back in Dowgate he turned for the safety of the hall, walking as fast as his stiffness would allow. He turned in through the entrance alleyway.

“Good day, Mr. Clarenceux,” said one of the porters, stationed in one of the chambers beside the entrance.

“Hoskins, my good man,” said Clarenceux, relieved to see a friendly face.

“Watch out, Mr. Clarenceux. Behind you.” Hoskins put out an arm to guard Clarenceux from a cart entering the alley.

Clarenceux drew in close to the door to the porter's chamber and watched the cart trundle past. The rider was wearing a huge rainproof cape and hat; on the cart behind him were several barrels of wine. Clarenceux noted that the man's face could not be seen.
Perhaps
I
could
change
clothes
and
positions
with
him? But that in itself is bound to arouse suspicion—what if he should betray…

And then he hit upon a far simpler plan.

“Hoskins, do you know anyone with a boat who would be prepared to take me a short distance along the river, from Dowgate to Queenhithe, and then on to the Isle of Dogs?”

“Why, Mr. Clarenceux, I might well. It depends when you want to go. My cousin is a bargemaster, but he is at Southwark this afternoon.”

“No, Hoskins, I need to go now. This very moment.”

“Then what about young John Gotobed, the court clerk's nephew? He was here just this morning and will be returning shortly with a consignment of paint. Shall I tell him when he appears?”

“Hoskins, I would be very grateful. Tell him he may find me in the wardens' chamber.”

It was almost dark by the time Clarenceux arrived at Mile End. He entered the inn and found the hall lit by a fire and many candles, and thronged with men and women, children and dogs. At one table a family party was eating together; at another, three merchant travelers in fine doublets and stylish flounced hose were discussing their journey. At one end of a long table some farmers were drinking; next to them a bailiff and a letter-carrier were playing cards. Two traveling musicians were occupying the same table, laughing as they fended off the calls of a group of young men and their wives to play some music so they might dance. Standing around the hall were the tradesmen of the area—a blacksmith and his wife, a surgeon, a brewer, a butcher, and clerks who kept accounts for their masters or for the church.

Clarenceux, holding the chronicle under his robe, pushed through the people standing in the center of the large room. He was looking for the tell-tale leather apron of the landlord. It was not to be seen, but a weary-looking woman in a faded red gown, laced bodice, and apron did catch his eye as she carried a large flagon to the long table.

“I'm looking for Mistress Lowe,” he said to her over the noise of the crowd, adding the explanatory “my wife,” embarrassed at the necessary lie.

The woman shouted her reply as she poured ale from the leather flagon into a wooden cup and pocketed a silver penny in return. “Good day to you, Mr. Lowe. I had to move three men from that room, seeing as a married couple would be paying for the bed, so 'tis good you've arrived.”

She beckoned Clarenceux away from the hall through to the screens passage at the far end and out into the courtyard. The cold air and near-darkness was a shock after the warmth and light of the hall. The woman carried no candle. Clarenceux followed her as she started to climb the outside staircase to the gallery, where she opened the second of three doors. He saw the light of a single flame within, a lamp fixed to the wall.

“Mistress Lowe, your husband's here,” she called.

There was very little furniture in the room: just a bed lacking its curtains, a stool, a washing basin, a ewer, and an oak chest. There was no fireplace. Clarenceux saw Rebecca rise from the far side of the bed and turn toward them. He could not see her face, silhouetted by the lamp behind her. He made a small bow.

“Good evening,” he said, looking at her.

She nodded a reply and whispered “good evening” back to him. He noted her voice was weak. He also could see she was wearing a fashionable and expensive dress with elaborate shoulders and upper sleeves—she must have been back to Mistress Barker's house.

He turned to the innkeeper's wife. “I presume you are Goodwife Crawley?”

“Sir, I am.”

“Come inside, please.” He closed the door behind her. “Has my wife asked you about a sum of money left here for us some years ago? It was deposited by a man called Henry Machyn.”

She seemed anxious. “Sir, I don't know that such a sum was ever left here. Maybe my husband knows…”

“Your brother Lancelot told us of the money. Maybe it would help if I reminded you it was left here for collection by King Clariance of Northumberland.”

“Lancelot says a lot of fanciful things. Comes of our having such a father. If he put himself to a hard day's work, as myself and my husband do, he would have less time for dreaming about knights and kings.”

Clarenceux glanced at Rebecca. She had moved out of silhouette, and he could see the material of her dress, a rich velvet. She was even wearing a small ruff. But he was shocked to see that her face was wet with tears, reflected in the candlelight.

“I do not wish to discuss your late father but the money that was left here. Lancelot said it amounted to twenty pounds. Are you telling me that your brother was lying to us?”

She stiffened and her voice grew defensive. “If ever there was such a sum, it was not so great as twenty pounds. And it may already have been repaid. You will forgive me, but I should be getting back to my drinkers. I will ask my husband to speak to you in the morning.”

She left the chamber abruptly. Clarenceux let her go. He shut the door and sat down on the bed.

“As soon as something good seems to happen, something else comes along to set us back again.” He sighed, took off his robe and cap, and placed them on the chest beside the bed.

Rebecca had not spoken. He turned to her.

“Tell me,” he said gently.

The words tumbled down, dropped like heavy stones from her soul. “Henry's dead.” Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and she broke into a moan.

Clarenceux's heart fell. He got up and moved to hold her, putting his arms around her, feeling her shoulders rising and falling with her grief. He held her tight. It was all he could do.

He remembered his conversation with Henry two nights earlier, and the moment he had read Henry's prediction of his own death in the chronicle. He recalled all the occasions when Henry had come to receptions at his house or had been at other gatherings. He thought of the many times he had seen him following a funeral cortège, head bowed, dignified, correct, and respectful.

“I went to Mistress Barker's house after leaving the Bull's Head,” she said, wiping away her tears. “I was thinking that, if I was going to pretend to be the wife of a gentleman, then I should dress like a gentlewoman. There were soldiers everywhere, as I am sure you saw for yourself, but I walked straight past them. I decided that if you were bold enough to do it, Mr. Clarenceux, then I should be too. But Mistress Barker was solemn when I arrived. She told me the news. She had heard it from an acquaintance of Henry's called James Emery, who had been told by a friend of his that he had seen Henry's body being taken to the plague pit.”

“The plague pit?”

“They didn't even give him a proper burial.”

Clarenceux let her cry into his shoulder.
She
has
now
lost
everything
precious
to
her: her husband, her daughters, and her home. Perhaps that is why she was so bold as to walk past the guards in Queenhithe and I was not.

“Goodwife Machyn,” he said, “there will be a time for mourning. But first we must have some food. We must eat to keep up our strength. If they are not going to give us the money we came for, then they can put our debt in a shopbook. I will pay at a later date.”

Rebecca broke away from Clarenceux and looked down at the sleeves of the elaborate dress.

“I feel ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Why?”

“Because I have no right to wear these clothes. And I am ashamed not to have been with my husband when he died. Ashamed to be here with you, pretending to be your wife when your real wife is riding down to Devon, no doubt in great fear. You should be with her. You should go after her.”

Clarenceux shook his head. The whole notion of Rebecca's shame left him confused. “My wife—I know. I agree. I feel it, believe me. But I cannot properly look after her until this matter of the chronicle is resolved. She would not be safe and nor would my daughters. As for your shame… It is just the shock that has made you feel this way.”

“Maybe. I don't know what has made me feel so…empty of pride.”

He searched for something to say to make her feel proud.

“You look beautiful in that dress. But you look no less beautiful in your own daily clothes. It is simply a finer frame for a lovely picture. So let us not say another word about shame. You are a fine woman and I am proud that you are prepared to pretend that I might be your husband.”

“Honeyed words, Mr. Clarenceux. But you do not need to flatter me.”

“Let us go down to the hall and take some supper.”

She nodded. “You had better put the robe back on.”

“The robe? Why?”

She wiped the tears from her face with her hand. “Look at your doublet. You can still see the dried blood.”