Sacred Treason (2 page)

Friday, December 10, 1563

Clarenceux sat at the table board in his candlelit study, listening to the rain. It drummed on the roof and splattered in the puddles in the street two stories below. He pulled his robe close around him against the December chill, nuzzling his bearded chin in the fur collar, smelling the wood smoke that had infused the fur over the years spent in the same chair, in the same robe. Thunder rumbled across the sky. The rain seemed to increase in intensity, as if in answer to the thunder's command. He was alone but for his papers and this little halo of golden light.

Ever since the birth of their second child seventeen months ago, he had spent the evenings working on his heraldic manuscripts, his visitations. His wife, Awdrey, had retired early as usual, to do her embroidery by the light of the candle in the alcove above their bed. He liked to think of her there, needle in hand, in her candlelight, while he worked here at the other end of the house, in his own light. It was as if their evenings were joined by the two golden flames. Even though they were doing different things in different places, they were together.

He reached forward and lifted an old gold cup—once the property of a royal duke, to judge from the enameled coat of arms it bore—and sipped some wine. He opened the manuscript book before him and read the first page. The title read:
A
Visitation
of
ye
counties
of
Essex
and
Suffolke, commenc'd July ye 20th 1561, by me, William Harley, Clarenceux King of Armes
. That had been two and a half years ago, one of his regular expeditions to catalogue all the gentlemen in those two counties who were entitled to bear coats of arms. Such expeditions were among the most enjoyable aspects of his work as a herald. When war threatened and he had to ride through enemy territory to confront a king or a general, his responsibilities were far more onerous. And dangerous. But that trip through Essex and Suffolk had been a good occasion; he had met many amiable gentlemen and very few pretentious ones. He smiled at the memory of setting out that day with his companions all dressed in his heraldic livery. Even Thomas, his old manservant, had joined them, persuaded for the first time to don the brightly colored clothes of a herald's entourage. He had frowned constantly and grumbled regularly, but he too had been proud.

Clarenceux was about to turn the page when he heard a knocking sound down below. Three clear strikes on his front door, echoing through the silent house.

Few people called after curfew. Queen Elizabeth might have abolished the law by which Protestants, religious dissidents, and dangerous free-thinkers were burnt at the stake, but everyone was aware that the searches continued. Only now they searched for Catholics. A week ago a Catholic priest had been found sheltering in a house in London. The royal guard had put him in the pillory on Cornhill. In full view of the crowd, they had nailed his ears to the wood. When the blood ran down, they smeared the word
papa
—pope—on his forehead and laughed as they drank wine and spat it on him. After three hours they sliced off his ears and dragged him, screaming, to the Tower. No one had seen him since.

The echoing thud of metal on oak rang out again. Clarenceux sat still. His house had never been searched before, let alone in the middle of the night. He himself had never been questioned. He had always believed a man of his rank to be above accusations of religious treason. He had led diplomatic embassies to Germany, Spain, Holland, and Denmark. He had declared war on France, personally, in Rheims, on behalf of Queen Mary…

The knocking came again, hard, insistent.

But he was a Catholic.

He covered his face with his hands and whispered a prayer into his palms. He did not have much time. Where was everybody? The boy servants would be sleeping in the back attic. Awdrey would be lying in bed with the baby in her cot. Annie, his daughter, would be in her room. The maidservant, Emily, and Nurse Brown would be asleep in the front attic. Thomas normally slept in the hall on the first floor, but he would think twice about answering the door at this late hour.

Again came the knocking, sounding through the house.

Clarenceux went to the door and lifted the latch. He felt a slight draught on his face. There was darkness beyond, and silence.

In his mind he saw torches by night. He saw himself manacled, being led to the Tower. He imagined the cut of the iron on his wrists, the sound of the chains. The fact he had not done anything treasonable would not save him. It was the use of accusations, the spectacle of men being arrested, that mattered.
He
would matter, a gentleman paraded through the city in his heraldic livery, his ears nailed to the pillory—an example to the people.

Two more heavy strikes on the door.

He looked back into the candlelit room, across at the coat of arms painted on the paneling above the fireplace. They were his family arms, granted to his father, whose portrait also hung in the room. His father's sword was on one side of the fireplace, his own on the other. Like his father, who had served the old king, he was a gentleman. He had rights. But this might be the last time he would see this room. This might be the point at which he lost those rights, and all his status and property.

And so would his family.

He strode to the fireplace and took his sword from its hook on the wall. He picked up the candlestick from the table and left the chamber. The stairs creaked under his weight as he stepped down, feeling his way with his heels against the wooden steps, left hand holding the sheathed sword.

He entered the hall and raised the candle. The light was reflected in a small round mirror on the opposite wall. Further along, to his left, he could see the pile of blankets on Thomas's mattress in front of the fireplace. The fire was now just faintly glowing embers.

“Thomas?” Clarenceux called.

He heard his own deep voice fall away into the silence. He searched the shadows with the candle glow. “Thomas, are you down here?”

The door in the wall opposite was open. Beyond were the stairs leading down to the main entrance.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” came an urgent whisper from below. “Sir, what would you have me do?”

Clarenceux went to the door. Thomas was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. His shock of white hair, deep-set eyes, and heavily lined face gave him a gaunt look at the best of times. Worry made him look even older.

“Open it. If it is the queen's men, they will only return. If our visitors are our friends, they need our help.”

Thomas nodded and turned to the front door.

Clarenceux lifted his candle to the cresset lamp in the wall to his left. He lit it. The wick began to burn brightly. He heard Thomas shoot open the three bolts on the heavy oak door. The fist of his mind clenched, listening for men's footsteps, for the clink of armor, the knock of a drawn sword against a breastplate, the men shoving his servant aside…

There was a pause.

“It's Henry Machyn. Mr. Clarenceux, it's Henry Machyn!”

Clarenceux felt relief shine through him. He smiled. Machyn was harmless, an old man, well into his sixties, with a deep love for the Catholic saints and rituals. He looked down the stairs and saw Thomas taking Machyn's sopping wet cloak.

The
man
must
be
mad
to
come
out
on
a
night
like
this.

He shook his head and walked briskly back into the hall to light some candles, so he could properly receive his visitor. But as he did so, the darkness of the hall reminded him it was very late. It was pouring outside. Machyn had called despite the alarm he would undoubtedly cause. Most of all, Machyn's house was at a considerable distance, within the city walls, in the parish of Holy Trinity the Less. What on earth was he doing here, after curfew, in St. Bride's, outside the city?

Clarenceux stopped. He turned and looked back at the doorway, lit up by the cresset lamp burning in the staircase wall.

This was not right.

He heard the slow footsteps and the stick of the old man on the stairs, and Thomas sliding the bolts home on the front door.

He walked over to a large elm table that stood by the shuttered windows. He placed his sword on it carefully and picked up two more candlesticks. One candle was askew. He righted it thoughtfully and lit both. For a moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the round mirror to his left. Brown eyes; short dark hair with a few streaks of gray; short beard trimmed neatly. A kind, inquiring face. He was tall and fit, despite his forty-five years. Riding, walking, and sheer intellectual energy had kept him physically as well as mentally strong.

The man who now shuffled into the candlelit room was of an altogether different appearance. Henry Machyn was short and moved slowly with the aid of his stick, a white-haired hollow of a man. He was drenched from his collar to his shoes. His old-fashioned jerkin dripped onto the rushes, as did the leather-wrapped parcel he carried beneath his right arm. He was fat-faced; his clothes hung from his shoulders as if they had been piled over him. But it was his expression that shocked Clarenceux. He usually had an amiable, avuncular countenance, one belonging to a man who would cheerfully regale drinkers in a tavern with a tall story. But that face, surrounded by a circle of receding white hair, now looked simply bewildered. Two milky blue eyes looked out at Clarenceux, imploring, yet without hope, as if Machyn had just watched the hanging of a dear friend and was now wishing for death himself.

“Goodman Machyn, what in the name of heaven brings you here at this time?” Clarenceux gestured to his servant, who had followed Machyn up the stairs. “Thomas, fetch some towels.” He looked again at the deathly face of his friend. “You know it is perilous to be alone in the streets at night.”

“I need your help, Mr. Clarenceux,” Machyn said in a hoarse voice. “I trusted the wrong man. Everything is gone. It is over for me. The end. And my dearest Rebecca…” His voice began to crumble; his whole face broke into sobs. “…my wife, my son, my friends, everyone…”

It was as if Machyn's very character had been caught in a trap and sliced in two, and each half was dying separately, in lonely sorrow, unable to reassure the other.

“Goodman Machyn, my friend, what do you mean? Who would want to harm you?

But Machyn did not answer. He was crying openly, his cheeks and beard glistening wet in the candlelight.

Clarenceux stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. “Come now, sit down.”

Machyn shook his head. It took a few seconds for him to regain his composure. “No, I do not need to sit. I need to talk, to tell you something.” He took a deep breath. “I know you think you do not know me very well, Mr. Clarenceux. But I believe I know you. I have met you many times over the years, and I have always paid attention to your deeds and your achievements, your integrity. And that is why, now, at the end, I know I can trust you.”

“The end? What do you mean, Henry? The end of what?”

Machyn hesitated, clutching the object under his arm. “Will you do me the honor of looking after this book for me? It is my chronicle.” He lifted the parcel to draw attention to it.

Clarenceux removed his hand from Machyn's shoulder and took the package. He carefully peeled off the wet leather covering and let it fall to the floor. The volume itself was mostly dry. He turned it over: it had a fine, thick vellum binding, stamped in the center on both sides with the design of a whale surrounded by a circle of waves.

“It has been my work for thirteen years,” said Machyn, wiping his face. “Every event I have witnessed with my own eyes, every funeral for which I provided the black cloth and trappings, every sermon at St. Paul's Cross, every execution at Tyburn, every burning of a reformer or a heretic at Smithfield, every procession I have seen through the city…everything, everything.”

“It sounds like a monumental achievement,” said Clarenceux. “Bound in vellum too.”

“Like the volumes in your own library.”

Clarenceux nodded and smiled briefly. “Some of them.” His collection of books was probably the most extensive that Machyn had ever seen, but even he had few bindings as fine as this. “Of course I will…” he began. Then he stopped himself.

He paused. The room was silent. He could hear the rain outside. He felt uneasy again, as he had when he had heard the knocking.

“Why do you want to give it to me?”

“Because you are the most noble man of my acquaintance. You value old chronicles, and this one is so very precious. It will still be valuable after I am dead. In fact, far more so. I need you to look after it.”

Clarenceux looked away, toward the candles on the table.
So
very
precious
. Those may have been the words of the man standing in front of him, but they had not been composed in this room. Most of all, it was the word
need
that caused him to think. Machyn
needed
to tell him something. He, Clarenceux, was Machyn's last resort.

“But you have other friends, Henry, and you have a son.”

Machyn shook his head. “John is not interested in our history or the perilous state of our faith. He is impetuous and still has the hunger of youth. He wants to see the world. Maybe one day he will not return from one of his voyages. I want this book to last for centuries, like the chronicles you use when checking your visitations. I always intended that it would come to you in the end. I have bequeathed it to you in my will.”

“You have made a will?” Clarenceux was surprised. Most men waited until they were dying before setting their affairs finally in order.

Machyn raised his right hand. It was shaking. He made the sign of the cross over his face and chest. “I only ask one thing of you, Mr. Clarenceux. Promise me, please, if anything does happen to me, you will go to Lancelot Heath, the painter-stainer…”