Sacred Treason (8 page)

Sir William Cecil strode through the Painted Chamber in the Palace of Westminster. Scenes of battles fought in Old Testament times were visible in the gloomy shadows high on unseen walls, the paints faded now from their ancient glory. He held the fur of his robe close to his chest as he walked—the palace was empty and cold. Once parliaments used to gather in this vast chamber. Not anymore.

“Have you dined?” he called out to Francis Walsingham, who was waiting at the far end, seated on a bench. His voice echoed.

Walsingham quickly got to his feet. “Godspeed, Sir William. No, when I work, my diet is meager.”

Cecil held up a finger over his lips to indicate that Walsingham should say nothing. Walsingham's eyes narrowed a little as he walked toward him. Cecil waited for Walsingham to catch up with him and then led him down the stairs, out into the great court.

The sun earlier in the day had given way to a cloudy afternoon. In the absence of the court, there were very few servants to be seen. A light breeze chilled their faces. “Tell me your news,” Cecil said, walking across the wide yard.

“Machyn has been found.”

Cecil's pace did not alter. “Has he talked?”

“Not yet. He denies everything. Says he only knows Draper as a fellow merchant taylor.”

“So? What have you got?”

Walsingham looked around and nodded to the windows. “Will it matter if we are seen?”

Cecil understood his caution. Despite the cold, two windows were open. “We are discussing your parliamentary instructions, of course. But you're right.” He pointed to a gate that led toward one of the more private yards of the palace and began to walk in that direction. The sun unexpectedly broke out and cast a shadow across the quadrangle.

Walsingham cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Machyn was found hiding in the stable of a house in St. Bride's. The house belongs to your wife's friend, William Harley, the Clarenceux herald. You might recall that your wife and her sister stood as godmothers to—”

“His daughter, last year. Yes, thank you, Francis. When I forget the details of my own family connections, I will ask you to pray for me.” Cecil began to walk along the edge of a small courtyard, in line with a high wall. There were no overlooking windows.”This does not mean he is involved, of course.”

“No, not by itself,” agreed Walsingham, behind Cecil's shoulder. “But Clarenceux was found knocking on the door of Machyn's house half an hour earlier, in the middle of the night, despite the bad weather. He visited the house again this morning. I had given my man orders to shut up Machyn's house after we found him. Unfortunately, the fool made the mistake of closing up the house as if the inhabitants had plague.”

“What did Clarenceux do?”

“He took a crowbar to the door.”

Cecil came to the corner of the courtyard and stopped. “Did he enter?”

“No. But he opened the door far enough to be sure that Machyn and his wife were not at home.”

Cecil fell quiet, looking at the cobbles.
If
Clarenceux
was
protecting
Machyn
he
would
hardly
have
needed
to
break
down
the
door
to
find
out
if
he
was
there. He would have known he was in his stable. Still, such matters are best left for Francis to sort out. He wins all his battles—in the end.

“You appreciate that this complicates matters for us,” Walsingham said.

“I was not born yesterday, Francis.”

“Both for you personally and for the investigation,” he continued. “It suggests that your wife's friend is one of Machyn's Knights of the Round Table. This is not just a conspiracy of a few London merchants. Gentlemen of rank are involved.”

“Indeed,” said Cecil. “He is certainly an intelligent man, our Mr. Clarenceux. An honest one too. I gather he is not popular among the other heralds; they dislike him for refusing to accept bribes. They also dislike him because he understands the troops—having been a soldier himself, I understand. In the late Lord Paget's company. I like him because he has no time for selfish men on the make who would never lift a sword for their queen but nevertheless want a coat of arms to parade above their garden gates.” He stopped and paused, thinking. “Where are Machyn's wife and son? Is Clarenceux also harboring them?”

“John Machyn is a mariner, gone abroad. He sailed for France last week. As for Machyn's wife, I do not know. I have yet to order a thorough search of Clarenceux's house.” Walsingham hesitated. “I wanted first to ensure that he would cause you no embarrassment when he comes to you for protection.”

Cecil stared at Walsingham. “You know you do not need to come to me to authorize searches for information.”

“But a man like Clarenceux…”

“If he comes to me for protection from you…that's no concern of yours. You search and you search diligently. If your men enter his house and find nothing, all well and good. No harm done. But if there is guilt, we need to know. We need to root it out.”

“But this man's personal connections with you made me think that I—”

“Personal connections?” exclaimed Cecil. He immediately lowered his voice, hearing the echo in the courtyard. But he spoke with no less urgency. “How many friends of mine do you think I would permit to be traitors? Do you think I am a hypocrite, prepared to overlook treason when it is perpetrated by a friend? Mr. Walsingham, I suggest you do some hard thinking over the next day or so. There is no friend of mine more important to me than the State. If you do not think the same way, I suggest you consider where your loyalties really lie.”

Walsingham swallowed. But he looked Cecil steadily in the eye as Sir William continued.

“Remember what is at stake, Francis. I know at times I appear to you to be a bit of a fool—unaware of your nuances, your subtle conniving. Your talent for searching out the one man who can lead you to three more traitors is admired by everyone who knows what you have done. Your ability to second-guess their movements is uncanny. Your talent for applying pressure goes without saying. You might be right in this matter too—perhaps your instinct not to intervene yet has been inspired by divine providence. But let me remind you of one thing. You are responsible for finding information. I decide what to do with it on behalf of her majesty. You are responsible for uncovering plots but I am responsible for suppressing them. These matters are not games. They concern the stability of the ship of the State, the very vessel of England. Nothing is more important than its safety and security. If a mariner falls overboard, we do not turn the whole ship around. I would rather that innocent men drown than the ship be unsteadied.”

“With what I—”

“No, enough. You have already wasted time coming to see me. When Clarenceux discovers that Machyn is no longer hiding in his stable, he will be alarmed. What did his stable lads tell him? They surely told him who took Machyn?”

“Machyn was alone in the stable. Apparently Clarenceux lets his stableboys sleep in the house in winter.”

“That's just luck.”

“Yes,” replied a chastened Walsingham.

Cecil took a deep breath. “Let me remind you, Francis, that we know very little as yet about this plot. But we know how dangerous it is. It thus has something of the character of a mad dog about it. If you see a wild dog barking and frothing at the mouth, do you wait until it has bitten someone before you take action? No, you kill it straight away. Without a second thought. Do you understand?”

Walsingham nodded.

“Well then. Proceed on the basis that Clarenceux is guilty. It will be interesting to see what the herald has to say for himself.”

Clarenceux looked up and down Skinners Lane. The clouds in the western sky were pink and golden with late afternoon sunlight. A man was standing on a ladder nearby, repainting the knife-shaped sign above a cutler's shop. Some boys were playing a chasing game, calling out to one another with sudden shrieks of excitement as they dashed from one side of the road to the other. Three people were approaching from the eastern end of the road, leading a group of packhorses and looking down to keep the glare out of their eyes. They passed, ambling along with their heavy loads. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him.

Clarenceux walked up to the iron-hinged oak door, knocked, and stepped back, waiting.

The mud was particularly thick around the puddles. In summer, when it was dry, London was beset with flies, and you could smell the basement cesspits wherever you went. In late autumn and winter, it was the puddles that were most prominent; the smell of wet clay and ordure hung in the air.

The door opened a little. A woman with a small round face and an old-fashioned linen headdress looked out. She was in her mid-forties, dressed in a plain smock. Her sleeves were loose, as if she had earlier rolled them up to clean something and had quickly unrolled them in order to be decent when she answered the door.

“Godspeed, madam. My name is William Harley, Clarenceux King of Arms. I need to speak to Lancelot Heath on a very urgent matter.”

“He's not here,” the woman replied abruptly. He noticed she had bags under her slightly bloodshot eyes.

“Well, in that case, could you tell me when he might return?”

“No. He's gone away. On business.”

“Well, my good woman, I have no wish to pry into his affairs. But I do believe that he, like another friend of mine, Henry Machyn, might be in considerable danger.”

Mentioning Machyn's name caused the woman to begin to close the door. “I'll give him your message when he's back. Now—”

“Wait,” he said. “Tell him that I bear the name King Clariance of Northumberland. Clariance, like Clarenceux, from Sir Urry's tale.”

“I'll tell him,” she said suddenly. “He knows where to find you. Now, be gone.” She closed the door in Clarenceux's face.

The anticipated knock came later that afternoon. Clarenceux was in the hall with a mercer from a provincial town who wanted to commission a coat of arms. Clarenceux was in no mood to humor him. When he heard the knocking on the door, he seized the chance to put an arm around the mercer's shoulders and usher him to the stairs, telling him he would consider aspects of the design but now he had to attend to another client.

Thomas opened the door. The mercer donned his hat and brusquely nodded to the woman in a traveling cope and an undyed nurse's shawl who was waiting on the doorstep.

“Who is that?” demanded Clarenceux from the middle of the stairs, disappointed not to see Lancelot Heath. Before Thomas could answer the woman stepped forward and entered the house. She pushed her hood back and her dark hair fell loose about her shoulders—shockingly so. Married women were expected to dress their hair or cover it with a coif. She looked up at Clarenceux, her eyes meeting his directly with obvious determination.

“Please, Mr. Clarenceux, may I beg you close the door quickly?”

“Goodwife Machyn, I…Yes. Of course. Come upstairs straight away. Thomas, bolt the door. Take Goodwife Machyn's hood and shawl.”

She was much younger than her husband—in her late thirties—with sad but beautiful brown eyes. Her most distinctive mark was a large brown mole on the side of her jaw. When Clarenceux had first met her he had regarded it as a cruel blemish, but over the years, as he had come to regard her with greater affection—albeit always from a respectful distance—it had begun to amuse him. It seemed utterly absurd that such a woman could be considered marred by such a tiny speck, a third of the size of his thumbnail. He saw it as the opposite of an imperfection: a sign of distinctiveness. But even so, there was always an air of tragedy about her. Her smile was a little wistful, as if the true delights of life were things she would never know.

“I heard you at the house last night,” she began. “I heard Sergeant Crackenthorpe talking to you. And I saw you there again today, when you called for me and Henry.”

“It was nothing. I was only—”

“No, Mr. Clarenceux. It was something. When you are in our position, it is the most blessed relief just to know that someone else has sufficient heart and goodwill to open his mouth and to shout out, ‘What has happened to these people?' But I did not come here just to say thank you. I came to talk to you.”

“About Henry?”

She began to walk toward the elm table. “He told me yesterday evening that he had made a decision. He would not tell me what, but he told me to go to Mistress Barker's house. That was the last time I saw him.”

Clarenceux noticed that his maidservant, Emily, was about to enter the hall with some logs for the fire. She hesitated outside the door, uncertain whether to proceed. He gestured silently for her not to disturb them.

“What do you know of Henry's chronicle?”

“It was his most precious possession. He would not let anyone else touch it or even look at it. That is why I am so worried. Last night, when he said good-bye to me, he shed tears. He kissed me over and over again. He picked that book up reverently, as if it were the Holy Bible. He looked at it solemnly, then turned to me. He told me to wait a short while after he left the house, and then go to the house of Mistress Barker and stay there. I did as I was told, of course. But I was very anxious. I could not sleep. I heard men outside, knocking on doors and arguing. When I went out early this morning, I saw the plague crosses on our house. I was shocked, too frightened to do anything. I ran back inside. I watched from an upstairs window as you broke open our front door.”

“Do you know where Henry is now?”

“I wondered if he had come here.”

Clarenceux glanced down the length of the hall to the door. He could see Emily in the doorway, speaking to Awdrey. He wondered how much of his conversation Awdrey had heard.

“Come with me,” he said quietly. “It is better that we talk about this upstairs.”

He went to the front staircase, climbed the stairs, and pushed open the door to his study. Having drawn his seat forward for Goodwife Machyn, he made a pile of large books near her on which to sit himself. The light was dim; it was nearly dusk.

“Listen, I do not want Awdrey to know this. All she knows is that he left me his chronicle…”

“He left it here?”

“He also said he has bequeathed it to me in his will.”

“That cannot…I have not seen or heard of any will of my husband's.”

“Really?”

“Truly.”

He paused. “Now I understand why your house has been boarded up. They hope to find the chronicle there. And if they do not, they hope to find clues to its possible location. It isn't Crackenthorpe behind this. He is just an instrument.”

“I am sorry, I don't understand. I know Sergeant Crackenthorpe was at our house last night, but who is he? Do you know where Henry is now?”

Clarenceux stood up and went to the book press on the far side of the room. Two books were lying on their sides. He looked back at her. “Can you read?”

“A little. Henry taught me.”

He set aside the Gospels and took down the chronicle. He passed it to her.

“Look at the final entry.”

She took the volume and turned back the blank pages at the end one by one until she came to the last section of text. She sat hunched over it.

Clarenceux stood, watching her.

She did not move. She remained in exactly the same position, as if still reading, long after Clarenceux knew she had finished. He bit his lip. He heard a tear fall onto the page. She wiped it away carefully with the edge of her sleeve.

“They sound like his final words,” she said, not looking up.

Clarenceux remembered the fond old man's imploring face, the tears running down his cheeks into his white beard. His enormous distress.

“I'm sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with her hands.

“You've nothing to be sorry about. We're all in danger. Henry and you. Me too. That book contains a secret. When Henry was here, he told me that if I needed to know what it meant, I would find out. He gave me the name of Lancelot Heath, a painter-stainer, on whom I called this morning. I left a message with a discontented woman who answered the door.”

She closed the book gently and passed it back to Clarenceux with both hands.

“Do you know who the Knights of the Round Table are?” he asked.

She wiped her eyes again. “Only the heroes of old romances.”

“When Henry was here, he said that when the Knights of the Round Table are gathered together, the way to understand that book will become apparent to me. And he was very particular on this point, that the secret will become apparent to
me
, to no one else.” He paused. “I think the Knights of the Round Table is a fraternity, a Catholic brotherhood. Lancelot Heath—do you know if Lancelot Heath is a follower of the old ways?”

“He is, fervently so. He often comes to our house and will even kneel down and pray in our hall. He and Henry work together on funeral trappings. Henry provides the black cloth for funerals and drapes the hearse with the colors of the dead person's heraldry. Lancelot paints the funeral boards with the coats of arms.”

“In that case, I probably know him by sight.” Clarenceux tapped his finger on the book. “Does the name King Clariance of Northumberland mean anything to you?”

She shook her head.

Clarenceux opened the chronicle and found the entry for June 20, 1557. “And this?”

He passed her the book again. She read the entry concerning the sermon preached by the abbot of Westminster at St. Paul's Cross. “No,” she whispered.

“Henry gave me that date. He said it was important that I remember it.”

He went back across the room and replaced the book on the shelf. He turned and glanced at her as the last rays of sunlight caught the side of her face. Sounds of playing children entered from the street. She smiled and returned his gaze. Distracted for an instant, he forced himself to look down and consider the important questions.
Why
that
date? Why St. Paul's Cross? Why me? Why King Clariance?

“I suppose there are several Knights of the Round Table,” she said.

“And it would be reasonable to assume that your husband knows who they are. But what does that date mean? The Arthurian King Clariance appears in ‘The Tale of Sir Urry': at first he was a rebel against King Arthur; only later did he join with him to fight the Saxons. But that has little to do with a date in June 1557, or the inscription in that book. All I can guess is that the date Henry gave me relates to the abbot of Westminster and that each Knight has a date connected to someone else in the chronicle, or something else. Or maybe several things or places.”

She looked at him, her hands resting in her lap, and shrugged.

“The message of the book will probably only become clear when we know all the Knights, as Henry said. But John Howman, the last abbot of Westminster, has been in the Tower for the last three years—he is the arch-Catholic in England and even now he refuses to recant—so how are we supposed to get word to him, let alone in a private manner? We do not know what we are looking for, or whom. I do not even know how many Knights of the Round Table there are. All I know is that the fate of two queens depends on the safekeeping of this book.”

“There
are
only two queens in these islands.”

“Quite. And your husband is a Catholic, like the Queen of Scots. But I cannot see how anything that Henry could have known would affect the fate of either queen, let alone both…”

Clarenceux stopped.
Not
“fates” but “fate.” Henry Machyn definitely said “the fate of two queens.” One fate, two queens…O Lord Savior, sweet and merciful Jesus—does this mean what I think it means, that their individual destinies are combined into one fate? Within our grasp?

“What is the matter?” she asked.

Clarenceux looked at her. “In the event of Queen Elizabeth's death, Mary Queen of Scots could become Queen of England—queen of both countries. So you see: two queens, one fate. In the last parliament, Elizabeth refused to name her heir. The only hereditary alternative to the Queen of Scots is Elizabeth's cousin, Lady Catherine Gray, younger sister of Lady Jane—but that is hardly likely now, not since Elizabeth found out about Lady Catherine's secret marriage. She was absolutely furious with her; she annulled the marriage and sent her husband abroad, effectively punishing him with exile. Elizabeth has no other recognized heir, and there is no other popular claimant except the Queen of Scots, who is favored by all of those who prefer the old religion. If Elizabeth dies without naming an heir, then England will become a Catholic country once more.”

Clarenceux recognized a sense of foreboding and importance combined in what he was saying. He had felt it before, once particularly, in June 1557, when he had stood in the center of the great hall at Rheims, surrounded by the nobility of France, and announced in his loudest, proudest voice that England and France were henceforth at war. But then he had been merely a spokesman, a messenger. No one was telling him what to say now.

“In the event of the queen's death?” Goodwife Machyn looked up at Clarenceux.

“I know: it is far-fetched. But that does not mean Henry has not…” He broke off. Looking toward the dying light of day through the window, he felt a chill breeze. It would soon be time to close the shutters. “Crackenthorpe told me last night that it was a case of high treason he is investigating. That, I suspect, was a slip of the tongue, an honest one. I doubt he would have closed your house like that without some higher authority. To go over the constable's head and declare a house plague-infected…it risks causing panic.”

Rebecca Machyn closed her eyes. “Oh, husband,” she muttered, “what have you got yourself into? What have you got us into?” She stood up and walked to the fireplace. “I do not know what he has been doing. I have no real wish to know. It is none of my business. All I really want is to be safe, and for Henry to be safe too.”

Clarenceux thought.
Crackenthorpe
will
know
by
now
about
my
breaking
open
the
door
this
morning. Whoever is giving him orders will also know about our argument at Machyn's house last night. I have been dragged into this, even though I do not understand what is going on.

He glanced at her. “That book contains something treasonable. The fact we do not know what it is doesn't make us any safer.”

“But let us say that the book is discovered, and that you and I are questioned by some judge. Surely we can deny any knowledge of what is written there? Anything Henry actually wrote could be described as just his work, and wrong-headed.”

“Treated as a mistake? Goodwife Machyn, we're talking about the queen's paid killers—men who have fought in the wars and have not been able to get used to the peace. Sergeant Crackenthorpe—or whoever is giving him orders—believes something in this chronicle presents a threat to the queen. Henry has been keeping it secret. You yourself said he never lets anyone even touch it.”

“Are you saying that Henry might have been planning an attempt on the queen's life? That is ridiculous. He is but a poor merchant and a parish clerk. And sixty-six years old.”

Clarenceux stood up and took a couple of paces, pushing his fingers against his forehead, willing himself to think. “Crackenthorpe knows that some information—something treasonable—is here, in this book, in this house. After today's events he will know I am involved with your husband. He will come here, without doubt. He will search this house, looking for your husband. Looking for the chronicle and you too.”