“No—us. If we stay together they will have to bring overwhelming force against us at the same time. They will not do that. They have to take advantage of our being separated. Therefore, I will not leave your side. If we have to go anywhere, we go together—but that will not be until Annie is better. We will send Thomas and Joan to buy food and to pass messages. I do have to go to Skinners Hall and the Exchange, and to see Tom Griffiths about the rents of the tenements; but if we have to part I will accompany you somewhere safe. Cecil House is the obvious place.”
“What about everything else—your sword-fighting practice, for example?”
“We can forget that. The important point is that we do not open up any weaknesses. We don’t allow them to come between us, not when you are here or undefended. And when they make their move on us—which they will—we will have a strategy of our own.”
Awdrey took a step closer to him. She put her hand up against his cheek. “Please tell me you were not serious when you said you might kill yourself. It is not something I can bear. It would not make everything good and safe for us—it would destroy me too. Tell me you won’t mention it again.”
Clarenceux took her hand and kissed it. “I will not mention it again,” he said, looking her in the eye.
37
Thursday, January 9
Greystoke called that morning at the front door to inquire whether Clarenceux was going to the Belle Savage. When Clarenceux told him, carefully, that he had decided not to leave his family, especially while Annie was still suffering from the wound, Greystoke suggested they practice together in the yard. This they did, for an hour, and once again Greystoke proved the more expert swordsman. Nevertheless, Clarenceux acquitted himself well. He also knew that there were objects around that he could have employed to his advantage had it been a real fight—the stable door, a pair of barrels inside the gate, a spade. He intentionally did not use them. There was no point in telling Greystoke how he really fought. If ever they drew blades against each other in anger, it was better that he should know Greystoke’s methods—and that Greystoke should know none of his.
“You fight well for a man of your age,” said Greystoke as they went into the buttery with a tankard each to pour themselves some beer.
“You do not know how old I am.”
Greystoke supped his beer. “You are forty-eight. Walsingham told me.”
“Walsingham seems to have told you a great many things. Is there anything he did not teach you?”
“Dante. He never speaks a word of Dante.”
“‘Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria,’” said Clarenceux.
Greystoke raised his tankard. “Very good, Mr. Clarenceux. But that is one of the more famous lines. Can you continue the quotation?”
“Alas, no. But you are the expert.”
“‘E ciò sa ’l tuo dottore. Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice del nostro amor tu bai cotanto affetto, dirò come colui che piange e dice.’”
“You will have to translate that for me—my Italian is not so fluent.”
“It is Francesca’s line. After Dante, in the company of Virgil, has spoken to her, asking her how she knew she was in love, she replies with the famous line that you know: ‘There is no greater sorrow than to be reminded of a happy time in one’s misery.’ The rest means ‘and that thy teacher knows. But, if you desire so keenly to recognize the first root of love in us, I will do even as he who weeps and speaks.’”
“Bravo,” Clarenceux said. “Some people know Dante, and some people know their Bible. You, I imagine, are one of the few who knows both.”
“I pride myself on my Dante, it is true,” admitted Greystoke, “but one can never know enough of the Bible to be proud.”
Clarenceux poured slowly, making sure he didn’t spill a drop.
38
Friday, January 10
Maurice Buckman waited while Joan Hellier ascended the stairs into the upper chamber of the Black Swan. He put on his spectacles and watched her from the shadow. “You are late,” he said, as soon as she appeared in the light of the candle.
“I am sorry, Father,” replied Joan. “I was making sure I was not followed.”
“That is good but it does not excuse lateness.”
Joan bowed. “As I said, Father, I am sorry.”
“Clarenceux’s daughter—is there any news of her?”
“Sarah Cowie and Ann Thwaite have both been watching the house. Neither of them has seen anything to indicate any change.”
“It is good that the girl is still alive. The more we hurt his family and yet leave them living, the more we can impress upon him our seriousness.”
Joan stared into the darkness. “Why was there no bullet in Jane’s gun?”
“It was important that she not kill Clarenceux, merely make him believe he was under attack. It was unfortunate that she obtained another gun—we were lucky she did not use that one on Clarenceux.”
“You wanted Greystoke to kill Jane? You sent an innocent woman to her death!”
“Her life was already forfeit. She was already dead in the eyes of the law. I needed someone to attack Clarenceux, so Greystoke could show his loyalty by killing her. Would you rather I had chosen you?”
“No, but I regret her death. She was innocent—even of the crime for which she had been condemned.”
“We are all innocent. We all have good honest reasons for doing what we do. Even Clarenceux can justify his actions, if only to himself. But we are not concerned with understanding and forgiving—that is God’s business.”
Joan bit her lip. There was no point in saying anything else. She was just a mercenary in this war.
39
Sunday, January 12
Clarenceux had been awake for over an hour, yet it was still dark. Something had awoken him, some noise. He lay in bed, hearing Awdrey in the next room. Every moment of every day for the last week he had feared the shriek of despair if they were to find that Annie had died. Every time he saw Annie lying still he feared she would pass away from them. However much he told himself it was normal for a man to watch half his children die, he could not accept it. He and Awdrey had not lost a child—he had come to think of them as extraordinarily fortunate. He told himself that, by expecting the worst, it would never happen—like a watched pot does not boil. But he doubted his thoughts. He doubted everything.
As he lay there, he remembered being tortured some years before. All his life he had been quick, agile, and strong, and now it was hard to reconcile himself to the fact that he was in pain much of the time and so much slower than he had been. Younger men like Greystoke had all the confidence now and, moreover, they had good reason to be confident, watching older men wither and weaken. But it was troubling that he was losing his strength when his family most needed him.
He heard the door open. Awdrey came into the room, trying to be quiet. As she got into bed, the ropes beneath the mattress tautened and shifted.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Asleep. I think she’s improving.”
“It’s been a week now.”
“I know.”
“Either we all go to church today or none of us do.”
“I don’t want to go,” said Awdrey immediately. “We all went last week.”
They were quiet for a while. Awdrey put her arm around Clarenceux, and he responded by putting an arm around her.
She whispered across his chest, “Every day I say to myself, it could happen anytime. One of our beautiful girls could be taken from us. This hour might be my last hour of tranquility.”
“This state is not one I would call tranquil.”
“No, but it could be worse. Every moment is a threat, and every moment that the threat is not realized is one of tranquility. I feel like a candle flame, not knowing which way the breeze will come, nor whethe
r it will be a burst of air that will extinguish me.”
He held her close.
“And you, William, what do you feel?”
“I worry. For you, for Annie, for Mildred. I feel weak, stuck in this house, as if it is our castle. How I have prided myself on looking out through wide glass windows, and yet I would now rebuild the front of my house with stone and a drawbridge, if I could.”
“It is a treasure, this silence, in the great vessel of the night.”
Shortly afterward they rose and went about the day. The morning was bright with springlike sunlight streaming in the open shutters at the back of the house. The decision not to go to church greatly relieved both of them, and Mildred played on the floor of Annie’s chamber. Thomas built up the fire in the hall, and Clarenceux went down to inspect his horses with Nick. He had eaten some bread and sage butter for breakfast and was wishing he could simply go for a ride when Awdrey appeared in the yard.
“Where is Joan?” she asked.
“Joan? Why, is she not…” Clarenceux felt the ground slip from under him. He went to the back door and through, along the corridor to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. Joan did not have a key. “Joan!” he shouted. “Joan!” He turned back to face the way he had come; he had certainly been the one who had unbolted the back door that morning. Surely she had to be still inside? Alarmed, he started to search the house. There was no sign of her in the disused and empty shop at the front, nor in the buttery behind that. He fetched a light and searched behind the barrels in the windowless room. There was no indication of her having got up to light the fire in the kitchen, as was her duty, nor her entering the pantry. Upstairs, Thomas was arranging the hall for the Sunday lunch; he had not seen Joan either. Clarenceux went up the stairs to his study; she was not there. He went downstairs and strode across the hall to the rear staircase. “Joan!” he shouted, fearing the worst. “Joan!” There was no sign of her on the back stairs, nor in the parlor nor in the guest chamber. Forcing himself up the stairs and calling again, shouting for her, he looked in his own chamber and in those of his daughters.
Lying on her bed, Annie looked pale and terrified. Mildred simply looked confused. “Why are you shouting?” she asked. “Is Joan still asleep?”
Clarenceux said nothing. There were now only the attics, the back attic being where Joan usually slept. It was reached by a ladder on the upper landing, outside their bedchamber. Clarenceux searched for a light; he lit a candle from the hall fire, which Thomas had rekindled, and ascended the ladder. As his gaze rose above the level of the attic floor, the candlelight illuminated a naked foot not far from his face. The girl was motionless, her smock and a petticoat rucked up around her knees. He braced himself, to reach forward and feel her bare lower leg. It was like holding a cold joint of meat.
He took another step up into the attic, lifting the candle to look around the dark space. There was no sign of anyone, just here and there a crack of daylight entering where one of the shingles did not sit squarely on those below. He looked down at Joan’s corpse; there was bruising around her neck. Not far away was the straw mattress that she slept on; the canvas sheets were thrown back.
But the doors were locked. Joan’s killer must still be in the house.
Clarenceux descended the ladder halfway and stopped, unable to believe that anyone would do this in his house. He had had his suspicions about Nick—but he could not believe that Nick would do such a thing. It had to be someone else—but who? Someone that Nick had let out of the house, locking the door behind him.
Clarenceux descended the ladder and stairs quickly, going down to the buttery, where Thomas was moving a barrel. “Joan’s dead. In the attic. The doors were all locked last night, am I correct?”
“By the saints, dead?”
“The front and back doors,” insisted Clarenceux. “Am I right in saying they were locked?”
Thomas nodded. “You know they were, sir.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” said Clarenceux in a voice that was more of a shout than a question. “No doubt at all?”
Thomas shook his head. “None at all.”
Clarenceux stormed out into the yard. Nick was there in the doorway to the stable. Awdrey saw her husband march out of the house and make straight for Nick, who backed away into the stable as he drew near. “You’re the one who is responsible,” he shouted. “The doors were locked, on the inside. Either you killed her or you let the murderer out!” He was jabbing his finger at Nick. Rage suddenly took hold of him and he grabbed the boy’s jerkin with his left hand and struck him hard in the face with his right. Nick tried to break away but Clarenceux held on. “Who killed her? Who?” He repeated “Who?” in between each blow. After four or five blows he flung Nick against the wall. Only when Thomas and Awdrey between them managed to prevent his blows did he stop. He spluttered and glared at Nick, who was bleeding from a cut below one eye and from both nostrils. “Why did you do it?” he panted. “Why? I do not believe you killed her yourself, but you had to have let the killer out.”
Nick dabbed at his wounds glaring at Clarenceux. “I did nothing! I let no one in or out. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You will hang for this.”
“In God’s name, Mr. Clarenceux!” shouted Nick, distraught. “God’s my witness, I never did it, nor did I let no one out of the house. I swear it.”
“William,” implored Awdrey, putting herself in front of him. “Do not rush to conclusions. There may be an explanation.”
“I am not rushing to conclusions,” snapped Clarenceux. “Someone in my house committed or abetted a murder—Joan’s murder. I do not believe it was Thomas or you, and our daughters are not capable. There is only one alternative…”
“Sir, be calm, be rational,” pleaded Thomas.
“Damn you, I am calm, I am rational. There is no other explanation for why she is dead and the doors locked. Unless you know something.”
Thomas did not reply. He looked into Clarenceux’s eyes, questioning him. “Nick,” he said coldly, not taking his eyes off Clarenceux, “I think it would be best if you were to leave Mr. Clarenceux’s house now.”
The boy stumbled forward. “Where will I go?”
“Go to your friends on the other side of the road,” sneered Clarenceux. “Go anywhere, just get out of my house. The constables will come for you wherever you are.”
“William,” protested Awdrey.
“Get out!” roared Clarenceux at Nick, ignoring her.
Nick left the yard, banging the gate shut behind him.
And then came the huge emptiness upon Clarenceux, the hollow moment, with Thomas and Awdrey both looking at him in shock. And he saw Mildred too in the doorway to the house, staring at him as if he was going to shout at her too. And the cascade of events tumbled through him—the fear of the soldiers changing guard, the murder of Rebecca Machyn, the shooting of Annie and the killing of her assailant, and now the killing of Joan. He felt unutterably sad, frightened, and sick. He leaned against a wall, breathing deeply.
“Someone was in our house last night,” he said.
“There is a possibility he still is,” ventured Thomas. “It is possible that you have treated Nick most unfairly.”
“No. I have just searched the whole house.”
Thomas bowed perfunctorily and turned away. “I have tasks to attend to.”
Clarenceux said bitterly, “I cannot even look after my family, not even my servants when they are under my own roof.”
“I am going back to Cecil House,” Awdrey declared. “I will send to Sir William and Lady Cecil and ask them if I can stay indefinitely. For the sake of the children.”
Clarenceux looked at her and then looked away.
“I have said this before, William, but you must bring this to an end. We cannot live like this.” She waited for him to say something but the emotion that
he was fighting showed on his face. He had too many inner struggles to speak warmly to her. “I will go and look at Joan now,” she added. “I need to say good-bye to her. She was a good servant.”
***
For the next hour Clarenceux said very little. He went to see Annie, preparing himself for the fact that Awdrey was going to take the girls away again. He asked his daughter how she was and accepted her one-word answers sadly. He wished she would say more to him and let him share her suffering, but how could she? He read a little to her from the New Testament, and saw her turning uncomfortably, and stopped to help her. He went to the kitchen to fetch her some bread and butter. When she had eaten and was asleep again, he simply looked at her, treasuring memories as they came back to him, one by one, from the day of her birth to when she had declared she loved him more than warm milk and Mildred had shouted that she loved him more than God.
He did not notice Mildred standing in the doorway, looking at him curiously. “Daddy, why are you crying?”
Clarenceux smiled and lifted Mildred in his arms and kissed her, and felt tears welling in his eyes again. “For all the good things, Mildred. I am crying with joy for all the days we have been happy together, and for the joy of life. It is so valuable, and you and Annie are so precious.” He held her, pressing her cheek against his. Awdrey came up the stairs and went into their chamber with some clean linen. He set Mildred down again and looked at Annie, whose eyes were open. “Is there anything else you need now?”
Annie shook her head. Clarenceux spoke to Mildred. “Wait with your sister. Let me know if she wants anything.”
He walked out of the room and down the stairs to the hall, emotionally and physically exhausted. He wanted to ride away, yet knew he could not. Looking in the mirror he saw the lines around his eyes, his hair awry. The cold neutrality of the mirror in showing him in this soul-disheveled state left him feeling even lower. He wondered if this was what the atheists felt when they looked at the world, that it was all exactly as it appeared, and not overseen by God Who understood and took pity on those oppressed and distracted by their suffering. Is there any compassion for Man in nature if there is no God? he wondered.
The Final Sacrament Page 19