Sacred Treason (33 page)

Clarenceux directed Shepherd to set up a trestle table in the center of the hall. When he had done so, the two men lifted the corpse and placed it on the table. Candlelight flickered on the pallid skin. The heavy, lifeless arms were already stiff; Clarenceux drew his knife to cut the clothes off. But at that moment Rebecca walked up behind him. “There is no point. We have no shroud.” Seeing that he had not yet closed the dead man's eyes, she did so, setting the head straight and pushing back the broken skin of the neck.

Clarenceux stood looking at the dead face. He reached forward and touched it. “I wanted you to see it. It is right that you and I should see the result of your slip of the tongue. Not so that I or anyone else can blame you—the good Lord knows we all make mistakes. But to see what Walsingham does. I need to feel angry, Rebecca. And I need you to be angry too—so that you want me to feel angry, to kill. All compassion is now a weakness. I am going to leave the chronicle here tomorrow. And you are going to come with me to Hackney, to keep watch when I go into the church there. I will enter as a soldier and as a Christian. If my enemies are waiting for me, then I will fight. And if God is not with me, then I will die.”

He leaned forward and kissed the forehead of the dead man. He made the sign of the cross and walked away into the darkness of the hall.

Wednesday, December 29

Daylight. Feathers. And the sound of trickling water in the next chamber.

Rebecca stirred in the bed, surfacing from a very deep sleep. She had left the shutters open and could see the ripped mattress and broken bolsters spilling their contents around her. She blinked and remembered the previous night, when they had looked into the room and seen that the bed ropes and mattresses had been slashed and the bedding scattered. Hearing Clarenceux splashing water on his face in the next room, she sat up, aware that she too should be getting ready to leave. She pushed back the covers, climbed off the remains of the mattress, and walked over to the basin in the corner. Seeing that there was no ewer, she hurriedly pulled her dress on and went through to his room.

He was kneeling, half naked, at the foot of a makeshift bed, splashing his upper body with cold water. He glanced at her but said nothing when she entered. From his silent manner she sensed his resolve, the coldness of his mind.

She knelt down beside him to wash her face and hands. He stood up without saying a word, pulled on his doublet, and walked over to where the chronicle lay. He picked it up and slowly returned to her. He placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She paused, still leaning over the basin.

“When you are ready, come to the chapel.”

***

The chapel at Summerhill was small and, like the rest of the house, very old. The paintings on the wall were dark from the soot of so many candles over the years, and the roof—a narrow barrel-vault—was similarly blackened. One stained-glass window gave a greenish light to the chancel and left most of the rest of the chapel in shadow. The crucifix above the screen had been defiantly in place—against the law—until Walsingham's visit. Now it stood propped up against the altar, having been smashed down by Crackenthorpe's men.

Clarenceux was kneeling on the tiled floor, his head bowed before the altar where three candles were burning. The chronicle was also on the altar, placed before a silver cross. A sword, an unsheathed dagger, and a small boot knife lay on the ground to his right.

Rebecca knelt beside him, on his left, and they both began to pray.

He looked at her. “Are you ready?”

She nodded.

They both got up. Clarenceux bowed to the altar and bent down to pick up his weapons. He slipped the small knife into his right boot, strapped on his sword, sheathed his dagger, and bowed again. She also bowed and left the chapel at his side.

In the hall James Hopton's body was still lying on the trestle table where they had left it the night before. Clarenceux went to the dais and picked up one of Julius's heavy black robes that was draped over the table there. He put it on, staring at Hopton's body, and made the sign of the cross.

When
we
look
at
the
dead—especially those who have died for a cause we believe in—our self-belief and our belief merge into one.

He lingered a moment longer then crossed himself again and marched out of the hall.

They rode from Summerhill to Greenwich and took their horses on the ferry across to the Isle of Dogs. From there they rode to Mile End and asked John Crawley, the landlord of the Rising Sun, and his wife Iseult whether anyone had come asking questions about their previous visit. No one had. So Clarenceux talked to them about the roads, paths, buildings, and bridges in Hackney. Was there any news of guards in the Hackney area? Crawley said that men had been seen loitering in the area but that was all. No one was sure if they were still there or not. Clarenceux questioned him further about the layout of the village: how many crossings over Hackney Brook were there? And where did those paths lead? After an hour they left.

They approached Hackney from the south at two o'clock—just as the tower bell of St. Augustine's was chiming. The sun had broken out of the thick winter clouds and cast patches of light on the grass on either side of the road. People were carrying wooden crates of chickens into London and riding with their copes laced up against the cold. There were businessmen in fashionable dress, a carter with a load of slates for a new London house, and tinkers and vendors with packhorses laden with baskets of purses, brass pans, and iron scissors for market stalls. Several cowherds were shifting their milk cows back to their home fields. Further along, a farmer was driving a flock of sheep along the highway.

The country around here was entirely grazing; there was no arable farming at all. Clarenceux knew it from trips north in the past, when conducting visitations or when traveling out of London in his youth. Indeed, he had stayed at the Mermaid Inn in Hackney on several occasions, and once at the Flying Horse. The old Percy house still stood in the north of the parish; he had attended a funeral mass there once. And there was a substantial brick house in the village of Homerton belonging to the Machell family, where he had attended a wedding—Brick Place, it was called. Alongside that house was a path through to the churchyard. Although he could hardly claim to be intimate with the locality, he was not on unfamiliar soil.

Clarenceux drew in the reins and pulled his horse to a halt at a crossroads. He could see the spire of St. Augustine's Church in the distance, peeping out from between the tops of trees, golden in the afternoon sun. There was an inn a little way further ahead on the right, beside a ford through Hackney Brook.

A robin alighted on a branch overhanging the road. It sang a brief song and cocked its head on one side before flying off.

“Here is where I leave you,” Clarenceux said, looking along the road to his right. It was a grassy lane lined by leafless beech trees and an old wall. “I want you to ride straight on, through the ford, and into the village. Go past the church and see if there are men in the churchyard. If you see anything suspicious, keep going—just ride straight out and find safety. If there is no one, ride into the yard of the Mermaid Inn and ask to leave the horses there while you see the landlord. But don't go into the inn. Come back and find somewhere discreet from where you can watch the front of the church. Remember, if the worst happens, just ride for safety.”

“And you? What about you?”

“I will go by this lane, on foot. If all is well, then I will come and find you. If not…well, you will know what to do.”

“Mr. Clarenceux…”

He swallowed and did not look at her. “We have no time now for speeches. We must be strong and trust in the Lord.”

Rebecca shut her eyes. “Before you go…”

But he dismounted and placed his reins in her hand. “Good-bye, Rebecca,” he whispered. “Live well and give thanks to God often.” And without another word he slapped the horse's rump with his gloved hand, causing her to start moving forward.

Rebecca rode on for a little way with her eyes still closed. She whispered a prayer for him. Only when she came to the brook did she look back and see him there, a solitary black-robed figure, waiting.

When she looked back a second time, from the far side of the brook, he had gone.

***

Clarenceux hurried along the grassy lane on foot. John Crawley had said there were two small bridges to the east of the ford, one stone-built, the other wood. The nearer one, the one made of wood, led to a lane that went around the back of Church Fields. The stone-built one led into Homerton, coming out not far from Brick Place.

He walked briskly, feeling the hilt of his sword beneath the robe. He saw the first bridge, fifty yards off the lane, with trees leaning over it. He walked on. Two hundred yards ahead, with reeds growing in the marsh on the near side, was the second narrow bridge, with newly built stone piers and ruts where small carts had churned up the mud on the approach path. This was the one he wanted.

By
now
Rebecca
will
be
at
the
Mermaid
Inn.
He crossed the bridge and walked toward the whitewashed houses at the top of the lane. This was the village of Homerton. He turned left into the wide curving street and continued walking past Brick Place to the pathway he knew, which led to the back of the church.

Here his pace slowed. On his left there were gardens, surrounded by a high stone wall. Ahead was Church Fields, and beyond that was the churchyard. If anyone was on patrol there he would see them long before they could recognize him.

He glanced to his right; a herd of cattle was standing in the field in deep mud around a cattle trough. There were no men in sight.

Now he was thirty yards from the churchyard…twenty…ten.

Here was the gate.

A gust of wind from the north chilled his right cheek. There was a woman carrying a basket in the churchyard. Otherwise nothing. No one. He paused and watched her leave, unconcerned by his presence.

He walked into the churchyard, toward the porch on the south side of the church. He could see a tall brick house on the far side of the churchyard which had many small windows.
Anyone
could
be
looking
out. But maybe no one forces you to stop.
He came to the porch and went inside. His pulse was racing. He placed his hand on the door handle and twisted it. It was unlocked…
Keep
going. This is God's work; He will protect you.

He pushed the door open; it swung with a creak on its iron hinges.

The church was full of daylight, with wide broad-arched windows. Some paintings on the walls had been white-washed over, and the stone altars denuded of their vestments. No cross stood above the rood screen. But all these things were of less interest to Clarenceux than the one unassailable fact: there was no one inside. No troops, no spies.
No
one.
A tremor of joy ran through him and he closed the door, bursting with anticipation. He walked quickly into the nave and looked along the length of the building, his eyes noting the tombs and monuments. In the south aisle there was a very impressive-looking effigy, but in his excitement his eyes struggled to find the epitaph. When he found it, the name was Haskins. So he moved to the next, and the next, checking wall plates, chest tombs, brasses. His eyes skimmed inscriptions, looking only for names, reading:
Liddiard…Leech…Jones…Halloran…

And then he saw it in the north aisle. It was very plain for a monument commemorating an earl. There was no figure. Clarenceux's mental image of the tomb, with an effigy of the earl reclining in stone, reflecting on his too-short life, had been completely wrong. The actual grave was marked only by a plain marble-topped chest tomb set into the wall. An elegant box. The marble had no words, no inscription. Along the front there was a clearly carved inscription in English—easy to read as the winter sun was casting the carved letters into shadow.

Here lieth interred
Henry
Lord
Percy
, Earle of Northumberland, Knight of the most honorable Order of the Garter, who died in this Towne the last of Iune, 1537, the 29th year of Henry ye 8th.

The inscription was so unprepossessing that for a moment Clarenceux believed his interpretation was wrong. He took his glove off and ran a finger along the lines of the lettering.
This
was
nothing
to
do
with
the
chronicle. My fears of being discovered here by Walsingham were all unwarranted.
Nevertheless, he took another look and read the words carefully, just in case he had missed some code or other hint. He reached for the writing materials he had brought in the pocket of the robe and copied the inscription, kneeling down and leaning on the marble surface.

Then he stood up, disillusioned.
There
has
got
to
be
more
to
this
than
meets
the
eye.
He wondered if some object nearby might cast a shadow, thereby picking out a certain series of letters. He stood back and moved slightly to one side but there seemed to be no change to the inscription, nor any shadow or marker. He looked at the stained-glass window above the tomb, searching it for any script or scene that might give a clue to the interpretation of the chronicle. Nothing seemed significant; the window was much older than the tomb. However, in drawing away from the tomb he noticed that there was another inscription in the stone on the end. It was the single word, in capital letters:

ESPERANCE

He felt a shiver of anticipation and alarm at the same time. This was not just Lord Percy's motto—it was the word with which Machyn had ended his chronicle.

He crouched down and inspected the lettering. Then he shifted himself to the opposite end, to see if there was a word there. And then he gazed, astonished, at the tomb. Clearly this
was
the place intended by Machyn. Carved in small Roman capitals was a torrent of Latin:

MILITIA EST VITA HOMINIS SUPER TERRAM ET SICUT DIES MERCENARII DIES EIUS • SICUT SERVUS DESIDERA TUMBRAM ET SICUT MERCENARIUS PRAESTOLATUR FINEM OPERIS SUI • SIC ET EGO HABUI MENSES • VACUOS ET NOCTES LABORIOSAS ENUMERAVI MIHI • SI DORMIERO DICO QUANDO CONSURGAM ET RURSUM EXPECTABO VESPERAM ET REPLEBOR DOLORIBUS USQUE AD TENEBRAS • INDUTA EST CARO MEA PUTRUDINE ET SORDIBUS PULVERIS CUTIS MEA IRRUPUIT ET PECCATUM APERITUM EST • DIES MEI VELOCIUS TRANSIERUNT QUAM A TEXENTE TELA SUCCITITUR ET CONSUMPTI SUNT ABSQUE ULLA SPE • MEMENTO QUIA VENTUS EST VITA MEA ET NON REVERTETUR OCULUS MEUS UT VIDEAT BONA • NEC ASPICIET ME VISUS HOMINIS OCULI TUI IN ME ET NON SUBSISTAM • SICUT CONSUMITUR NUBES ET PERTRANSIT SIC QUI DESCENDERIT AD INFEROS NON ASCENDET • NEC REVERTETUR ULTRA IN DOMUM SUAM NEQUE COGNOSCET EUM AMPLIUS LOCUS EIUS • QUAMPROPTER ET EGO NON PARCAM ORI MEO LOQUAR IN TRIBULATIONE SPIRITUS MEI CONFABULABOR CUM AMARITUDINE ANIMAE MEAE • NUMQUID MARE SUM EGO AUT CETUS QUIA CIRCUMDEDISTI ME CARCERE

For one throb of his heart, Clarenceux felt the satisfaction of knowing what the Latin meant and where it had come from. It was from the book of Job, chapter seven, where Job justifies his will to die. Those last words—
am
I
a
sea
or
a
whale
that
you
surround
me
in
prison
—were a strange adjunct to what had gone before. Indeed, they made a conundrum in themselves, but that was why Clarenceux remembered this passage so well. He had never understood that line—what did it have to do with Job's lamentation?
The
embossed
cover
of
Machyn's chronicle is marked with waves and fish. Both inscriptions on the ends of the tomb link to the book. Is the proof of the marriage inside this tomb, placed there during the funeral by Henry Machyn?

Suddenly he heard the iron hinges of the door and marching footsteps on the flagstones. A shaft of sunlight through the window caused him to shield his eyes as he rose to his feet, but there was no doubt what was happening. Six men were lining up, three on each side of the door. They were all wearing different liveries—one a wine-red doublet, another a black tunic, another an old fur-trimmed jerkin—but all were armed with side-swords. And they were all under orders; none of them spoke. They just stood to attention in their motley garb, like a group of parish militia men on muster day.

He heard a woman's voice screaming outside, in the distance. He recognized it as Rebecca's. “For the sake of Christ's mercy,” she was yelling, “Mr. Clarenceux! Get out…save yourself.”

There was nowhere to go. There was only one door. He looked everywhere for an alternative exit, but there was none. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as two more men entered. Each of them was holding a rope tied to one of Rebecca's wrists. She was struggling, twisting backward and forward, trying to loosen the knots and break away. But they had tied her well and were brutal in the way they handled her. “In the name of God!” she screamed as they hauled her inside, one reaching down and grabbing her hair. But when she saw Clarenceux standing there, not escaping or even trying to avoid the guards, she realized the futility of her struggle. She became still, staring at him as if he had betrayed her.

“They were waiting in the Mermaid Inn,” she said coldly. “The bastards were waiting for us…They've sent a messenger to Walsingham.”

A ninth man, who appeared to be the captain, entered as she spoke. He stepped straight across to her and struck her hard in the face. “Shut up, woman!” he shouted. “You two—search that man. If he has any weapons, take them. Bind him. And you, lock the door. We will wait here until Sergeant Crackenthorpe arrives.”

Clarenceux considered his chances. There was time yet to draw his sword. Two men were holding Rebecca; it would be seven against one. Better than that, there were only two men approaching him and he would have the moment of advantage. But then the captain called out, “Don't even think of drawing a weapon.”