Sacred Treason (34 page)

Clarenceux shifted his gaze away from the approaching men to the captain. He saw the long barrel of the gun that the man was pointing at him. He glanced to the other side of the church. He could run across the nave; it was difficult to shoot a running man. There was a chest tomb in the south aisle; maybe if he could get onto that, he could smash his way through the window. But breaking the glass would take time, and he would be an easy target. They would shoot him. And they would still have Rebecca.

The first of the guards pushed him roughly back against the wall and grabbed for the hilt of his sword beneath his robe. Clarenceux let him take it, and the dagger too. He let himself be turned and shoved face first into the wall beside the tomb as the guard roped his wrists together behind his back, drawing the thin rope very tightly against the skin.

“Tie him to the screen,” commanded the captain. “The woman too, on the other side. Keep them apart.”

As Clarenceux was forced toward the chancel screen he tried to come to terms with his inaction. He had been prepared for this; he had been ready to fight. And now, somehow, in a matter of seconds, he had been overwhelmed. He felt a rope being passed around his waist and his body firmly tied to the oak upright of the screen, and then another looped around his neck.

They had led Rebecca to the screen in the south aisle. Clarenceux felt ashamed; he did not want to look at her. He did not want to see a sign of recrimination in her face for leading her into what had, in retrospect, been an obvious trap. Walsingham had known—and was able to place a large number of men here, quietly, dressed as traveling gentlemen, and keep them here for days, weeks.

The
plot
is
dead
now. The candle has spluttered and gone out. And our lives are following the same course.

The captain stationed two men to guard the door. Three others were ordered to watch Rebecca and three to watch Clarenceux. The sun was almost gone from the south windows; the light in the church would soon start to fade. Clarenceux looked at the earl's tomb, silent, still, with the dust settling on it as it had for the last twenty-six years.
Is
the
proof
of
the
queen's illegitimacy hidden inside that chest? If it is, then that was a bad place to hide it. We might have come here incognito and seen the inscriptions, but we could not have opened the tomb without arousing attention. Perhaps that is why Henry Machyn arranged for there to be nine Knights—to work together to open the tomb. But then why the chronicle? And why the reference to the book of Job? The sea, the whale. And there was something odd too about an earlier part of the inscription. It should have read
cutis mea aruit et contracta est
. Or something like that—something about Job's skin becoming wrinkled and furrowed…

His
skin…

At that moment, as Clarenceux looked up and saw the very last ray of sunlight disappearing from the furthest corner of the furthest window, he realized. It was sweet food for the soul. At last, he understood the secret of Lord Percy's tomb, Henry Machyn's secret.

Sergeant Crackenthorpe strode into the church with all the appearance of a powerful and proud man in his hour of glory. But in truth his heart was burning. There was a rush of fire in his body—it raged in his chest and in his limbs—and it was a desire, not a pride or any sort of reflection on what had happened. He had not been able to ride at Walsingham's gentle pace, merely smiling to himself at the thought of questioning Clarenceux. He wanted to rip the man limb from limb. He wanted to flay him alive—to cut the strips of skin off his back and pour salt onto the bloody flesh. He wanted to drive his heel into the man's hand, feeling the satisfaction of breaking each bone.

Three soldiers accompanied him into the church. They waited at the back while he advanced toward Clarenceux. Clarenceux expected a punch to the face or body. He braced his stomach muscles, but no blow came.

“How fitting that God should have delivered you to me in this place. I worship the almighty that puts you at my mercy. But I have no mercy. I swore a long time ago that I was going to do to you what they used to do to traitors in the past: cut your guts out and then burn them in front of you. In France they tie a man's arms and legs to four horses and pull the body apart.”

Clarenceux drew himself up to his full height and looked Crackenthorpe in the eye. “Where is Walsingham?”

“Still on the road. He is probably savoring the thought of what you are going to tell him as much as I am the thought of making you talk.”

“Have a thought for your soul, even if your name is that of a murderer.”

Still Crackenthorpe did not punch him. Instead he said, “Do you know why I rode on ahead?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

“It is because Mr. Walsingham does not approve of some of my methods. He thinks I am a killer with no self-control. But as you can see, I know what I am doing. I could inflict a lot of pain on you—and I will. But when I do so, it will be for my benefit, not for his, nor for the sake of obtaining information. You will talk not because of anything I do to you but because of what I do to the woman.” He glanced at her, tied to the wooden screen, looking down. “Pretty thing she must have been. Your mistress now?”

Clarenceux said nothing.

“It will hurt you even more, what she suffers. You see, I know what it is to torture a man. I don't just hurt his body—I hurt his soul. I draw it out by hurting the people he loves. I know from experience. Only it happened to me when I was young, and adversity makes the young grow stronger. It just weakens and kills men and women past their prime. When I torture you, I will feel good because your pain will remind me how strong I have become. But you…First you will weep, then you will talk, and then you will die.”

“Walsingham is not alone in despising your methods. God does too.”

“Spare me the sermon, Mr. Clarenceux. In these matters you are an innocent. You will only make things worse. For her.” He smiled. “When I think of what I am going to do my body feels hard and strong, like my mouth watering at the thought of drink. I like that feeling. I relish the humiliation of a woman, of rendering her powerless. Her powerlessness makes me feel powerful, and increases my pleasure. Or I can give that pleasure to others, and that also is power.” He turned to the two soldiers standing guard over Rebecca. “You two, take the woman back to the inn. Despoil her, both of you—do whatever you want with her.”

Clarenceux shut his eyes as the men untied the rope binding Rebecca to the screen.

“Mr. Clarenceux,” she called, “we will fight them with love. Be strong. Trust in the Lord…”

“For Christ's sake, shut her up!” yelled Crackenthorpe.

“Trust in the Lord, Mr. Clarenceux,” Rebecca repeated. Then one of the men yanked her jaw open and thrust a rope through her mouth, tying it behind her head. The two of them dragged her out of the church. The hinge of the door creaked open and the guards slammed it shut behind them.

“Are you wondering why I do not want to have her myself? It is because seeing you in pain will give me greater pleasure.”

“I would spit in your face if this were not a holy place.”

“Your religion weakens you, Mr. Clarenceux.”

Clarenceux stared at Crackenthorpe and searched for something to say. All he could think of was the scar on the man's face. “That scar,” he said, “I like it. It reminds me that a man tried to kill you.”

Crackenthorpe fought to retain his composure. Then he let fly with a punch and connected with Clarenceux's jaw. Clarenceux's head was knocked back against the carved wooden column to which he was tied. He tasted blood in his mouth, and his tongue felt a loose tooth. The double blow affected his sense of balance. He felt sick.

As he retched and spat out the tooth, he heard the creak of the door. The diminutive figure of Francis Walsingham walked into the nave, followed by four men in his black livery. Crackenthorpe wheeled around.

Walsingham approached, looking at Clarenceux's bloody face, his groggy half-closed left eye. He gestured to the tomb of Lord Percy. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“I have nothing to explain.”

“Come, Mr. Clarenceux. Your playing at rebellion is over. I might have believed you before, when you claimed ignorance; I even let you go. But you betrayed my trust then and you have proved yourself my enemy since. We know who the Knights of the Round Table are. We have interrogated your comrades, and although they tried to protect you, we know the truth. We know the encoding of Lord Percy and the date of his death; who but a herald would have thought of centering a plot on the tomb of a dead lord?”

Walsingham looked up and around the church, as if surveying it for the first time. He turned back to Clarenceux. “But what is the significance of this place? Is this a mustering point for your rebellion? Am I to expect that troops are descending on this spot as we speak, from Essex, from Suffolk, from the Midlands? From the north? Is this another Pilgrimage of Grace? To the tomb of the earl of Northumberland, the man who refused to lead the first Pilgrimage? I want an explanation, Clarenceux. And I want it now.”

Clarenceux shook his head. “The men who organized this plot are all dead. Henry Machyn. Sir Arthur Darcy. John Heath. I came here to learn what…what it might have entailed, to explain it to Sir William Cecil.”

“You can explain it to me.”

“I would have done,” whispered Clarenceux, “if Sergeant Crackenthorpe had not ordered the rape of Goodwife Machyn before you arrived.”

Walsingham looked coldly at Crackenthorpe. “It is this man we need to torture, from whom we need to extract information, not her. Why did you issue such an order?”

Crackenthorpe pointed to Clarenceux. “This man's weakness is not in his body but in his conscience. Hand her back to me, and allow me to slice off her breasts in front of him. Before I've made the first cut, Mr. Clarenceux will agree to do whatever you want. I guarantee it.”

Walsingham stared at Clarenceux. “A poor revolutionary you would make, if the pain of one miserable widow defeats you.”

“I have…been thinking…much the same thing myself. That is why I am a herald, not a revolutionary.”

“Where is the woman?”

“I sent her to the Mermaid Inn,” Crackenthorpe told him.

Walsingham turned to the men behind him. “You two, fetch her. Bring her back here.”

Then he turned his attention to Clarenceux. “Let us talk about this as gentlemen. Your cause is over. Whatever rebellion you wished to foment is not going to happen. You are going to be executed, both you and the widow. The only question is how we do it. Now, let us suppose you give me the chronicle of Henry Machyn and tell me the significance of Lord Percy's tomb over there. In return, I will ensure that both of you are hanged, and you are not quartered and Widow Machyn is not burnt at the stake or treated to any further humiliations.”

“How am I to give you the chronicle?”

“You will tell me where it is. I will send Sergeant Crackenthorpe to fetch it. When he delivers it to me, I will countermand the order for your quartering and her burning.”

Clarenceux shook his head and murmured, “You misjudge me, Walsingham. You misjudge us both. The weapons I hold are…sharp.”

“You will die a traitor's death.”

“And when the plot is enacted, so will you.”

Walsingham angrily turned away.

Through his blood-covered eyes Clarenceux saw that his bravado had opened up a chink in Walsingham's armor. The man had no idea what the plot entailed.

“Mr. Walsingham, I reserve my claim to innocence in all these matters. But I suggest a deal of another kind. You will release all the Knights of the Round Table and every one of those people whom you suppose to be my associates, including Mr. Julius Fawcett, if you have him, and I will deliver the chronicle to you—on two conditions. The first is that Sir William Cecil is present and the second is that we exchange the chronicle and prisoners at my own house.”

Walsingham frowned. “Why? Why should I listen to you? Or even think of having any part of a deal with you? In a short time you will be dead, Clarenceux.”

“If I must be a martyr, Mr. Walsingham, then so be it. But I do not think you want that to happen. Because you will have failed. My death and that of Goodwife Machyn will not be the end of things. I have had no part in any plot against her majesty; but now, having seen that tomb, I know what will happen. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

Walsingham's face darkened. Clarenceux was bringing his most feared nightmare to the forefront of his mind—the unforeseen, unstoppable plot. He walked to the tomb in the north aisle.

“Open this,” he shouted angrily to the men waiting in the church. “Now!”

All the men in the church jumped to his service, including those stationed at the door. Only those near Clarenceux stayed at their posts. Even Crackenthorpe wandered nearer. Clarenceux watched.

“You, go and find a crowbar. The rest of you break the cement with your swords.”

“My offer is still on the table, Mr. Walsingham,” Clarenceux called. “You will have some explaining to do when you have desecrated a holy grave and found nothing.”

“Shut up, or I will have Crackenthorpe hit you again.”

“This is a church, Mr. Walsingham. A house of God. And you are digging up a man who has had a holy burial.”

When the man returned with a crowbar, they set to work, hammering its edge under the marble slab. The church was filled with the ringing noise, which echoed between the arches and in the arcade above.

“Tonight will be almost full moon,” Clarenceux said. “If you agree to my terms, I will go and fetch the chronicle myself, this very evening. And then, on my return, you can pass your prisoners over to my care.”

“Damn you, Clarenceux! Hold your tongue or I will have it cut off!”

“You do not know what this plot is about, Walsingham. You need my help.”

The clanging noise of the crowbar against the masonry continued to ring out and echo. Then it stopped. Instead there was a grinding noise as the top of the tomb was shifted.

There was silence.

“What do you see?” Clarenceux sneered. “Let me guess. A lead coffin. Any dried flowers in there from the earl's widow? I thought not.” Walsingham turned away from the grave and walked slowly back to Clarenceux. “So, will you agree?”

“Sergeant Crackenthorpe wants to kill you with his bare hands. I am inclined to let him do so. You have one chance to explain this.”

At that moment the door creaked open and two men led Rebecca Machyn back into the church. Her dress was torn away at one shoulder and she was limping. She looked straight at Clarenceux and saw his bloody face. “God is with us, Mr. Clarenceux,” she said bravely. “God is with us.”

“Tie her to the screen,” said Walsingham.

Clarenceux felt a chill at the sight of her. His argument gave way to a cold, blank stare. “I will explain myself, Mr. Walsingham, tomorrow at noon, in the presence of Sir William Cecil and the rest of the prisoners, whom you will hand over to me.”

Walsingham held Clarenceux's gaze for a long time. He said nothing. His gray eyes flickered over Clarenceux's face, not caring for the blood. He turned and walked down the nave. “Crackenthorpe!” he called. The sergeant-at-arms hurried to his side and followed him from the church.

Light was fading now. The soldiers and guards waited where Walsingham had left them, not daring to leave their posts but no longer strictly standing on ceremony. Clarenceux looked at Rebecca; she was staring down at the flagstones on the ground, her shoulders slack, despondent.

Walsingham and Crackenthorpe returned after nearly ten minutes, Walsingham's short, quick steps contrasting with the slow, lengthy strides of Crackenthorpe, who followed just behind.

“Clarenceux. You will ride from here this evening to where the chronicle is kept. Sergeant Crackenthorpe will accompany you, along with three of his men. Of course, you will be tied. You will hand over the chronicle to me tomorrow at noon, at your house, as you have asked. If you do not, Widow Machyn will be burnt alive, and the other surviving prisoners will go to the gallows as traitors and be hanged, eviscerated, and quartered.”

“Who are the surviving prisoners?”

“Robert Lowe, Nicholas Hill, William Draper, Michael Hill, and James Emery.”

“You can keep William Draper,” mumbled Clarenceux. He found it hard to speak. Too many names had not been mentioned.