The Final Sacrament

by James Forrester

  “What do you want me to do?” she gasped as he removed his hands. Mildred was still crying, holding on to the top of her dress.

  “Tell me where that document is.”

  Awdrey looked at the woman beside the door. She could see now that her hair was dark, and that she was uncomfortable with Greystoke’s insinuations.

  “You could bring it all to an end most quickly,” Sarah pleaded, over the top of Mildred’s cries. “Why don’t you? Please!”

  Awdrey put an arm around Mildred and pulled her close. She kissed her head, soothing her. “You are wasting your time,” she said, not looking at them. “I know nothing more than you do. My husband said it was beneath a floor in St. John’s College, Oxford. You know that. And that is all I know.”

  Greystoke stopped at the door and looked at her. “I am not going to waste time now,” he replied coldly. “You heard me. Ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  54

  Clarenceux moved a hair aside on Annie’s sweat-streaked face, and wiped her forehead again. She was so weak, so pale and vulnerable. He looked up at the woman who had been nursing her. “By now I had thought that things would have turned one way or the other. That it would not be…not be like this.”

  He looked down at her again and saw her face so changed: the bright eyes unseeing, the delirium holding her from within. He thought of the people possessed by devils in the Bible and confessed to himself that he had never thought that such things might happen to his family. He had been too complacent. But if one does not live with a measure of complacency, one cannot live. To pour ashes over our heads every day—that is no way to bring up our children, no way to face life.

  He bit his lip and wiped her face again. Every intake of breath, every movement of her hand on the counterpane gave him an instant of hope—an instant that was quickly dashed. He closed his eyes and felt the weight of his tiredness; all he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep and wake to find that everything was well again—that Awdrey and Mildred were restored to him and at home, and Annie well again and smiling. So many people must feel the same way, he reflected. I am not alone. When there are so many of us who suffer, how can anyone want to make our lives worse? In what way is that a Christian thing?

  He noted Annie moving her hand. She blinked and opened her mouth, and once again his hopes were raised. But she simply moaned and looked past him, through him—her eyes focused on an eternity that she could see and he could not. He held her hand and kissed it.

  “Annie, my beloved Annie,” he whispered, “I want you to know that I am here and that all will be well for you, that you have no need to fear. You are innocent, you are good, and the Lord loves the good and the innocent.” Why, then, do the righteous suffer? Clarenceux fought back the question. “He will protect you and give you strength, Annie, and I will pray for you every day. I pray for you and your mother and sister. Our house is empty of laughter; there is dust on the tables and on the shelves. There are rats in our kitchen eating the crumbs of stale bread that have fallen there; there is a leak in the stable roof. The sheets I sleep in are dirty, as are those in which Thomas sleeps. All will not be right again until you, my sweet, are well once more and we are all together again as a family. Come back to us, Annie; if you can hear me in the depths of your suffering, come back to me. I need you.”

  Annie moved her hand, unconsciously. She stretched out, her hand shaking, reaching for something. Then the vision in her head was gone and her hand fell on the bed. Clarenceux saw no further movement in her. He watched and he waited; he saw her breathing and her eyelids trembling, the beads of sweat—but that was all. He stood up, crossed himself, then made the sign of the cross on her forehead and left the room, wiping away a tear hurriedly lest anyone should see.

  55

  Saturday, February 1

  The light of dawn was in the sky, with a pink shade, as if bad weather was to come. The next sensation that touched Clarenceux was the awareness of the empty space in the bed beside him—and he knew instantly that the nightmare of his life was ongoing. Normally he would have lingered in bed for a minute or two on such a cold day, but not now. Not with that absence beside him.

  Moving across the room, he went to wash himself, but the basin of water was frozen solid. He rubbed his body through his linen shirt, using it as a towel to clean himself. He swiftly removed it and put on a clean one—his last—from the clothes chest. Donning his waistcoat, doublet, hosen and shoes, he went downstairs. Thomas was in the kitchen already, talking to Fyndern. They heard him coming.

  “Do you want the fire in the hall built high, Mr. Clarenceux?” Thomas was folding up the blankets of his bed by the hearth.

  “No, just enough to keep it alight,” he mumbled, standing in the doorway. “Tell me, Thomas, how well can you remember the coroner’s inquest on the death of that woman who attacked Awdrey? She was killed two weeks ago tomorrow.”

  Thomas shrugged. “As well as the next man but probably no better.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Ann Thwaite. Why?”

  “How do you know?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Greystoke said so at that dinner in the Bell Inn. He said he heard the coroner call her by that name.”

  “She was not a Londoner. She had a northern accent. How would the coroner have known?”

  “Half of London has a strange accent these days—some are French and Dutch but many are from the north. She could have settled here and been known to the coroner from another parish.”

  “No other parish claimed her. She was buried in St. Bride’s.”

  “No? Then…how can Sir William Cecil not accept that?”

  Clarenceux walked the length of the hall, his footsteps sounding loud on the floorboards. Opening the shutters, he peered through the quarrels of glass at the house opposite. All the shutters were closed. Either the cold of the night had been too much for them or Greystoke had changed strategy.

  “I want you to stay here with Fyndern,” he told Thomas. “I am going to St. Bride’s. If Mr. Bowring or Mr. Lynton confirm what I suspect, then we know for certain that Greystoke had knowledge of her and knows about the women from Lady Percy—and no doubt is behind Awdrey and Mildred’s abduction. Walsingham will have to arrest him.”

  ***

  Clarenceux went to the church, passing one of the churchwardens on the way, who had already unlocked the building. At the vicarage, Mr. Bowring was not yet dressed but Clarenceux left a message and went into the church to wait. He walked up to the rood screen, stripped now of its cross, pushed the gate open, and passed through, reflecting on how that simple act would not have been possible only ten years earlier. Perhaps in admitting the common man to this, the holiest part of the church, the Protestants were making a claim for the real equality of souls? He felt torn. On the one hand, everything he cherished in the world was threatened—all the beauty and history, the richness, the pageantry, and the sense of communal living—and on the other, there was a degree of sublime purity in the uncluttered closeness to God to which the new church aspired. But why did one have to choose? Why could not the old stand alongside the new? And why did so many of those who wanted “purity” in themselves not care about it in others? They always spoke about their souls, their communion with God—as if He had a care only for them.

  But now, with the pain of Awdrey’s absence touching him particularly, he admitted to himself that he too felt a keenness for God to look out for him in particular. He felt the need to pray in that way. He needed to devote his soul as well as his mind and body to the well-being of his wife and children.

  He began to pray, kneeling there on the stone, in front of the high altar. He was still there half an hour later, when Mr. Bowring came up the nave.

  “I understand you want to see me.” He saw that Clarenceux was on his knees. “Are you praying for the souls of all the women who have died in your house?”

&
nbsp; All Clarenceux’s suspicions and distrust of the new religion came flooding back. He rose to his feet. “Indeed, Mr. Bowring. I need to ask you a question. About the last of the women.”

  “The last?”

  “I want to know if you were told her name.”

  “No. She was buried in an unmarked grave. I only did so because no one knew her name.”

  “You are sure?” asked Clarenceux. “Absolutely sure? The coroner did not tell you?”

  Mr. Bowring seemed affronted. “Do you think I would lie about whether I knew the name of a woman I had buried? The coroner simply recorded her as ‘woman foreigner.’”

  “Then you will say the same to Sir William Cecil? To Francis Walsingham?”

  “Why? What is it to—”

  “Yes or no?” urged Clarenceux. “Yes or no?”

  Mr. Bowring looked him in the eye. “I am an honest man, Mr. Clarenceux.”

  Clarenceux bowed politely. “So am I, Mr. Bowring. There are precious few of us left. Good day.”

  56

  Joan Hellier sat at the trestle table in the hall of the stone house. She turned the dagger that was lying on the table in front of her, idly nudging the point with her finger so that it moved around like the shadow of a sundial. She turned it toward the smoke rising from the hearth in the middle of the house. The window was open but the gray skies made it feel more like dusk than morning. Across the fields came the sound of the bells.

  “Ten,” she said.

  Sarah Cowie, who had been sitting on the bench opposite, went to the pile of logs; she picked up two and set them down on the hearth.

  “She has been quiet.”

  “She is praying. I looked in earlier when I took her the morning bread.”

  They fell silent again.

  “Do you think Greystoke will do it?” Sarah asked.

  “He’s a man, isn’t he?” Joan left the dagger alone and rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them.

  Sarah held her own hands over the fire. “I wish he wouldn’t.”

  “She won’t suffer more than a bruise to her dignity. We’ve all put up with that at some time or other, some of us more often than not. We all have our crosses to bear.”

  “It brings back memories…” said Sarah sadly.

  Joan suddenly picked up the dagger and stabbed it into the table. “Do that to your memories. Has it escaped your mind that we have all been sentenced to hang? And our daughters? If he roughs her about a bit, then it is for good purpose.”

  Sarah stared at her, holding her gaze but saying nothing. She turned away and looked along the track between the recently ploughed soil of the fields.

  “Here he comes.”

  Greystoke tethered his horse in the stable and entered the house. Both women looked at him but offered no more greeting than that. Joan worked the dagger out of the tabletop. Sarah watched him, her back to the window.

  “It’s dark in here,” he observed, taking his hat off. “Light a candle.”

  “We have none,” said Joan.

  “Well, build the fire up, then.” Greystoke took his cloak off and dumped it on a bench. “Has the woman spoken?”

  “She has been praying all morning,” said Sarah.

  “She’s waiting for you,” Joan said.

  Greystoke nodded. He unbuckled his belt and handed it and his sword to Joan. “Look after this.” He turned to Sarah. “You, come with me. Bolt the door behind me.”

  The staircase was old and wooden. Six steep steps in the corner of the hall turned and gave access to six steeper steps beyond, ending in a short landing and the door to the upper chamber, where Awdrey was being held. Greystoke gestured to Sarah to unbolt the door. Her heart beating fast, she stepped in front of him and did as she was told. The door swung inward and Greystoke entered, closing the door behind him. Sarah bolted it and listened.

  It took Greystoke a long while for his eyes to adjust enough to see the blanket-shrouded figure of the woman in the corner of the room. She was holding her child to her closely and shivering.

  “Have you decided to tell me where it is?” he asked.

  “God will curse you, John Greystoke,” said Awdrey, her voice barely audible. “God will curse you.”

  “That is all you have to say?”

  Mildred pointed to Greystoke. “I don’t like that man.”

  Awdrey pressed Mildred to her breast, hiding her face with her shoulder. “My husband destroyed that document.”

  “No, Mistress Harley. Oh God! How good it feels to say that, Mistress Harley, with you cowering in the corner of the room. No, I know he did not destroy it. He said the other day that it was beneath a floor in St. John’s College, in Oxford, and you agreed yesterday. If you tell me which room it is in, which building, then I will let you both go.”

  “God curse you and kill you! I hate you, hate you!” Awdrey screamed. Mildred began to cry but Awdrey was crying more, and screaming “I hate you!” between sobs.

  Greystoke just watched. When her shouts had subsided, he knocked on the door and called to Sarah. “Take the child out of here.”

  “No!” screamed Awdrey, clinging on to Mildred, who was crying too. Sarah opened the door and came in. She felt her way across the room as Greystoke tugged aside the blanket and grabbed Mildred’s arm, trying to pull her away. Awdrey hung on to her tightly, screaming the word “No!” repeatedly. With Mildred screaming and Awdrey yelling, Greystoke stepped on Awdrey’s leg. He bent down and slapped her hard on the cheek and yanked Mildred’s arm, pulling her up and away from Awdrey. Awdrey still did not let go, however, and Greystoke hit down hard with his fist, once, twice, and again, bruising her arms. Mildred was screaming in terror now, and Awdrey howling as she started to lose her grip. Another blow from Greystoke and Sarah had Mildred in her arms. She hurried her out of the room, slammed the door, and shot the bolt.

  Sarah sat down with the little girl on the stairs. Outside the rain started coming down hard, battering on the shingles of the roof, splashing in the puddles and mud, striking the walls. Sarah wanted to stop Mildred’s tears and make all well with the world for her. She heard Awdrey scream inside the room as Greystoke struck her, and she heard him yelling at her. She fought hard and cursed him at the top of her voice. Sarah only heard snatches of what he replied but it was enough. He told her that he hated her husband, Clarenceux, “with his pompous title and his delusions that he is a worthy swordsman, and his pretending to know Italian.” Most of all he hated him for thinking he could see through Greystoke’s plan. “He has no idea, no idea, what is going on under his very nose!” And she heard the sound of Greystoke dragging Awdrey to the bed, and the rhythmic creaking that told her how Greystoke had taken out his hatred for Clarenceux on Awdrey.

  Mildred sobbed, and called, “Mam! I want my Mam!”

  Sarah did her best to comfort her, holding her as she would her own daughters, thinking of them. She looked down at Joan, who was sitting at the table in the hall, ignoring everything. Sarah felt a tremendous sadness with the world and the cruelty of the men and women in it—the terrible things they did to one another.

  When, after ten minutes, Greystoke knocked to be let out of the room, he had an even colder demeanor than when he had entered. He fastened his breeches and stepped past Sarah. “Let the girl go back to her mother—at least until tomorrow,” he said as he went down the stairs.

  “What? And you are going to do the same thing again?” asked Sarah, shocked.

  Greystoke turned and held up a finger to her. “Don’t cross me. If you do, you’ll get the same treatment.” He looked her in the eye. “It’s something that Francis Walsingham taught me. You can torture a man to the point of death and he will refuse to speak. Tell him it all starts again in the morning—and that’s what breaks him. I will have her for a whore again in the morning.”

  He took his hat and c
loak, and opened the door. The rain outside was torrential, thrust down from the skies. He paused and waited a long time for it to subside, and not once in that time did he look back. Joan said nothing to him as he lingered in the doorway.

  The things Sarah said to him, she said silently.

  57

  Clarenceux thumped the table in Cecil’s study so hard that one of the candles on a candleprick went out, a drinking glass fell over, and a pile of papers slid onto the floor. “Walsingham will not speak to me! Walsingham will not even see me!”

  “William, you have no evidence. For all you know, Greystoke could be innocent. Walsingham trusts him entirely—and he does not place that amount of trust in just anyone.”

  Clarenceux ran his fingers through his hair, unable to believe this was happening to him.

  “I have told you, Sir William. Greystoke knew the name of one of the women who attacked us. No one else knew it—not even the chaplain who buried her. He lied about how he knew her name; he was forewarned about the threat—that was why he was able to surprise her and kill her. Don’t you see? He might have been sent by Walsingham, but he knows these women. He knows they have been sent by Maurice Buckman. He knows that they and Buckman are Lady Percy’s agents. He knows so much about them that he must be the one behind Awdrey disappearing.”

  Cecil walked to the fireplace. He stood with his back to the flames. “I am sorry, William, but this is not enough. He thought he knew one of their names—you do not know if he was telling the truth. It proves nothing—especially if, as you say, Maurice Buckman is giving him information as to who they are and when they will attack. It sounds to me very much as if this Maurice Buckman is giving so much information so freely to Greystoke that he will imperil Lady Percy’s mission without us having to lift a finger.”

  “God’s wounds, Sir William! It’s not like that. What do I have to do to make you see?”