Sacred Treason (3 page)

“Henry…”

“No, no. Please,” said Machyn, shaking his head. “Please listen, for this is most important. If anything happens to me, you must go to see Lancelot Heath, in the parish of St. James Garlickhithe. Tell him your name is King Clariance of Northumberland. And tell him I have given you a date. But do not tell him what it is. He will understand.”

“What date?”

“June the twentieth 1557. Exactly like that. June the twentieth.”

Clarenceux looked at Machyn, standing dripping before him. The man was clearly asking him to do much more than look after a chronicle. He could see his lip trembling.

He glanced away. He looked at the light of the candles burning on the table and thought for a moment about Awdrey upstairs, in the glow of her candlelight.

“Henry,” he said gently, turning back to face the old man. “What meaning has this date? Why need I remember it?”

Thomas returned with the towels. He passed one to Machyn, who wiped his face slowly and dried his shaking hands.

Clarenceux continued. “Look, my friend, we have known each other for fifteen years at least, maybe twenty. But you have never before come to my house in the middle of the night, without a lantern, breaking curfew. How did you get past the city gates? The city watch? You have never asked me for a favor before, except to borrow a book occasionally. But now you come here in the middle of the night and ask me to look after this, your own chronicle, and you start talking about its importance after you are dead? And you tell me you have made a will. You are either losing your mind or you are not being honest with me.”

Machyn opened his mouth to speak but uttered no sound. He wiped his eyes and face.

Clarenceux walked over to the elm table. He put the book down carefully and straightened it. He spoke in a low voice without
turning around.

“You know how dangerous it is to possess seditious and heretical writings. You know there are spies. The laws of this kingdom apply to me as well as you.”

“Not in the same way, Mr. Clarenceux. No, not in this case. As for the gates…there is an old elm near Cripplegate. There is a door just behind it that opens onto the tenement of a blacksmith called Lowe. He left the door unlocked for me, against the mayor's instructions, as a favor.”

Clarenceux turned and put his hands together, palms against each other. He thought for a moment. Then he let his hands fall to his sides.

“I do not know what to say. Will you not tell me the meaning of this…delivery?”

“If you ever need to know, you will find out.”

“
If
I need to know? If I
need
?” Clarenceux was aware of his suddenly raised voice. He breathed deeply, trying to regain his calm. “Henry, I believe I have the
right
to know what you have brought into my house.”

The old man nodded. “You have every right.”

Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. “Would it help if we were alone?”

“You have every right to know,” repeated Machyn, “but that does not mean it is right to tell you.” He held Clarenceux's gaze for a long time. “No, I trust Thomas, whom I know to be a good man who has spent many years in your service.” He paused. “But let me ask you this. Why are you a Catholic?”

Clarenceux concentrated. “Because…because it is what I believe to be the whole truth. The way God wants us to pray, the honest understanding of the Almighty—not a matter of faith at one's own will, or partial obedience to God.”

Machyn said nothing.

Clarenceux continued, feeling a little uneasy, “It is possible to be both a true believer and loyal to her majesty.”

“If you believe that then you deceive yourself,” said Machyn. His white-haired and white-bearded face had a sudden intensity, near to anger. “When I knocked on your door you must have wondered whether the guard had come for you. It took you a long time to answer.” He paused, searching Clarenceux's expression. “One can only remain faithful to the queen
and
God if the queen herself is faithful to God. Our present queen is not. You know that. At some point you will have to decide whom to obey: the Creator or His creation. Tell me, are you prepared to live your whole life in fear of that moment?”

Clarenceux looked back at the book on the table. A golden glow touched its pale binding. He walked over to it and put his hand on the cover, feeling the embossed and polished skin.

“In Malory's book, in the Tale of Sir Urry—isn't that where King Clariance appears?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Clarenceux turned. “Will you assure me, Henry, that I am not putting my family at risk by having this book in my house? Just tell me so, and I will promise you that all will be well.”

Machyn's hand fidgeted with the head of his stick. “I cannot.”

“Then, have you considered what you will do if I refuse?”

“I believe you will accept, William. You are a good man.” He looked as if he was one of the saints commanding Clarenceux to answer. “You know God's will. It is in your heart.”

In that instant, those sad eyes
were
the eyes of a saint.

Clarenceux considered. All the world he knew, all the sounds he could hear, and all the things he could see were in accord. He did not know what to do but he believed one thing: it was God's will that he should help this man, his fellow believer.

“This is a test of faith.”

“It is for me, Mr. Clarenceux. It has been for a long time. Twice as many years as I have recorded in that book.”

Clarenceux ran his hand over his beard. The fear of having his house searched remained. As did his sense of injustice, and his loyalty to his friends and God. His God. The gentle power that directed him when he was in doubt. The all-seeing watchman without whom he would have no protection from his enemies.

“Very well,” he said quietly. “I will do what you want, as a favor. But you too must do me a favor. You must explain the real meaning of all this. I need to be prepared.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clarenceux.” Machyn smiled for the first time since he had arrived. He stepped forward and reached out with his right hand. He took Clarenceux's and shook it, and continued to hold it. “Whom else do I know who would understand the significance of King Clariance? If you were to see a quotation from the book of Job, you would recognize it, I have no doubt. You are a man I can trust to fight for justice, for what is true and right. If you need to know the secret hidden in this book, you will find it out.” As he said these last words, Machyn let go of Clarenceux's hand. He crossed himself again.

“The book of Job?”

But Machyn was animated. “It doesn't matter. You are much younger than me. You will outlive these persecutions. One day you will know what I have learned, and when that day comes, you will be able to decide what to do…better than me.” He glanced at the sword on the table. “You will see justice and truth prevail. Believe me, I want to tell you everything. But there isn't time. If you see Lancelot Heath, and if he gathers the Knights of the Round Table, the way to understand that book will become clear to you. To you, Mr. Clarenceux. No one else.”

“Henry, stop. This is confusion, not explanation,” Clarenceux protested. “The Knights of the Round Table? Who are they?”

Machyn put his hand to his forehead. “I am sorry. I cannot think clearly. I am a foolish old man. I tried to prepare myself on the way here, so I would know what to say, but…it has all disappeared.” He let his hand drop to his side. He frowned, clutching his stick tightly. Then his expression became solemn again.

“Listen. I will say this. The fate of two queens depends upon that book.” He nodded, reflecting on what he had just said. “And now I must go,” he added, turning around and walking toward the door.

“Two queens? You must tell me more, Henry.”

But Machyn kept moving. “It is very late.”

Clarenceux glanced at Thomas. The servant picked up a candle and followed Machyn.

“Tell me more,” Clarenceux repeated. “If you want me to look after that book, you must tell me what dangers it holds. I must think about my family.”

Machyn stopped. “Mr. Clarenceux, that book is only dangerous if you know it is dangerous. If nothing happens to me, then you will never know what it holds. Nor will anyone else.” He smiled weakly. “It is just a chronicle, Mr. Clarenceux, the ramblings of an old man in his twilight years, nothing more.” He turned.

“Wait,” Clarenceux said, watching him. “Stay here tonight, Henry. It is dreadful out there.”

Machyn was at the top of the stairs, silhouetted by the light of the cresset lamp. “No. Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Clarenceux. I fear I would tell you too much. Besides, darkness and foul weather are my protectors. There is a sergeant-at-arms called Richard Crackenthorpe who has men out looking for me. The worse the weather, the easier it is for me to pass along the alleyways unnoticed.” He started to descend.

Clarenceux walked forward. “Looking for you? Why?”

“You can guess,” Machyn replied. He continued down the stairs with Thomas following. “The same reason why I had to see you.”

He reached the bottom. Clarenceux remained at the top, by the lamp. He watched Thomas set down his candle and lift the large wet cloak onto Machyn's shoulders. The candle shone on the side of Machyn's face as he turned to address Clarenceux.

“Go with God, Mr. Clarenceux.”

Thomas unbolted and opened the door. Machyn put his hand on the frame to steady himself, then stepped out into the rain and darkness.

Henry Machyn found himself once more in Fleet Street, in the dark. He shuffled across to the houses on the far side to get out of the rain. He felt tired. The cold bit into his face and hands and he leaned heavily on his stick. When he reached the overhanging jetty of a house, he paused. He was safe for the moment.

Lightning flashed across the angled roofs of the houses fronting the street. A moment or two passed, then the thunder came. There was no let-up to this downpour.

I
should
have
accepted
Mr. Clarenceux's invitation to stay.

He blinked, water dripping from his eyebrows.
No. I did the right thing. It is too dangerous now.

He stood still, with one hand against a wall and the other on his stick. All his plans ended with Clarenceux and the chronicle. Where to go now? He could not go back home. He needed to find somewhere he could rest, somewhere dry. He could sleep anywhere, he was so tired.

But a glimmer of satisfaction warmed him. He had done it. The book was in the hands of the most intelligent, conscientious, and dignified person he knew. A man who could defend himself and had powerful friends. Straining his old eyes, he saw the line of the roof of the herald's house. And up there, on the first floor, there was a chink of yellow light between the shutters: the candle on the elm table. His book was lying beside that candle. Mr. Clarenceux would soon read it. Before long he would read the end—and then he would know.

Despite Richard Crackenthorpe's threats, the book was secure. No royal sergeant-at-arms would dare search the house of a herald, surely. Whatever happened to him now, his part in this act was done. The burden he had borne for the last twenty-six years had been lifted from his shoulders.

Clarenceux stood in the hall, leaning over Machyn's book, which lay open on the table.
The Cronacle of Henrie Machine, marchaunt-ttayler & parrish clerke of Holy Trinitie ye Lesse
was scrawled in a very uneven hand across the top of the page. Beneath it was the first line of the first entry, in an equally unsteady script:
The xiij day of juni 1550 did Ser Arthur Darse knyghte John Hethe paynter & Hare Machyn marchaunt mete…
A line or so later he read,
& aftre to Paull's crosse wher we harde a godly sermon by ye gode bysshope of Dorham.

Clarenceux stared at the first paragraph. It was not just the writing which was appallingly bad; the spelling was awful. He had never seen such a badly written manuscript. Machyn had meant that he and his friends, Sir Arthur Darcy and John Heath, had “heard a goodly sermon by the good bishop of Durham.”

He turned the page. The next entries were much the same. On the right-hand side was an entry about the earl of Southampton's funeral in August of the same year. Machyn had provided the ceremonial velvet and the black cloth to drape the church, as well as the banners used in the funeral procession. No doubt it had been one of his commissions as an undertaker. That was how the two of them had met: Clarenceux had been the herald at a funeral for which Machyn had provided black cloth and heraldic escutcheons.

He reminded himself of the hardworking ethic of his friend. Machyn was entirely self-taught and intensely aware of his lack of formal education. That made him humble, self-knowing, and perceptive of frustrated desires in others. He was a good man in every way. Clarenceux had no right to criticize his writing. Many men of Machyn's standing could not read or write at all.

He cast his mind back over what he knew of Henry Machyn and his brother Christopher. They had come to London as boys, from Leicestershire, early in the reign of King Henry the Eighth. They had both completed apprenticeships and become members of the Company of Merchant Taylors. Both had been moderately successful. Christopher had owned six or seven shops when he died. Henry's ambitions had been more spiritual and historical. It was wholly fitting that the prized possession of this self-educated tradesman should be not a line of tenements but a finely bound chronicle filled with his own humble lettering.

“Sir,” said Thomas, standing in the middle of the hall, not far from his bed, “may I ask, will you be staying up? Would you like me to stack the fire?”

Clarenceux looked over his shoulder and glanced first at Thomas, then at the fireplace. Then he remembered the date that Machyn had given him: June 20, 1557.

“Wait,” he murmured, going back to the book. He turned the pages and started looking at the entries.

The xix day of June…The x day…The xiii day…
Even the dates were in the wrong order. For a moment he thought that Machyn had made a mistake. But he soon realized that the entries had simply been jumbled up. They had been copied into this book from preliminary notes. There were almost no crossings out.

Then he saw it, toward the bottom of the page. He read the entry silently at first, tracing the scrawl.

The xx day of Junj dyd pryche my lord abbott of westmynster at Powlls crosse & mad a godly sermon of dyves & Lazarus & ye crossear holdyng the stayffe at ys prechyng & ther wrer gret audyense boyth the mayre & juges & althermen & mony worshipfull.

He lifted the book, holding it in the light of the candle, and turned to his servant. “What do you make of this, Thomas? This is what Henry has written under the date that he told me to remember. It reads: ‘The twentieth day of June did preach my lord abbot of Westminster at St. Paul's Cross, and made a goodly sermon of Dives and Lazarus, and the crosier held the staff at his preaching; and there was a great audience, both the mayor and judges and aldermen and many worshipful.' There it ends. All I can think of is that he meant ‘worshipful men.' I was there that day.”

“Respectfully, sir, even if you were there, I do not understand why that is so extraordinary.”

“Nor do I, Thomas. Nor do I.” Clarenceux glanced again at his servant. He looked tired. “No, Thomas, I will not need a fire. Go back to bed. I am sorry you were disturbed.”

Thomas nodded his thanks. But he did not move.

“Yes?”

“Sir, it was a relief to me…that it was Goodman Machyn.”

“I know. I feared the same.”

There was a deep silence. The thought of being paraded in chains to the Tower once more passed across Clarenceux's mind.

“Good night, Thomas.”

“Good night, Mr. Clarenceux.”

Clarenceux snuffed out one candle, left one on the table for Thomas, and took the last with him up the stairs to his study. He shut the door behind him and put the book on his table board. He pulled his furred robe back around him, put a felt cap on his head, and sat down. Once more he opened the book and began to read.