Final Sacrament (Clarenceux Trilogy)

by Forrester, James

  Until that moment, Benedict Richardson had always believed that Lady Percy’s cause was a pious one. She wanted to expose Elizabeth as illegitimate so she would be replaced as queen by her Catholic heirs, the royal line of Scotland. But in those words and in that beating of the wall with her stick, he realized he had misunderstood her. To her, the Catholic cause was a means to an end. Lady Percy’s chief desire was not to destroy Protestantism; it was to get revenge on Anne Boleyn—the first wife and the one and only love of her husband, Lord Percy. Lord Percy had never entered their marriage bed, had never once been kind to her, because of his devotion to Anne. Even after the king took Anne for his own wife, Lord Percy had loved Anne, not her.

  Lady Percy saw signs of her dead rival’s victory over her everywhere—in Anne’s daughter Elizabeth reigning despite her illegitimacy and in her chosen form of worship being denied her by the same queen. It was not enough that Anne Boleyn had been executed; Lady Percy wanted her daughter also destroyed.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she barked, turning and seeing the expression on his face. “This is a cause for celebration. We have all but won.”

  “I am just so…surprised,” he said.

  “Why is that? You were the one who told me.” She narrowed her gaze. “Don’t tell me you are going soft. I thought you were a man of steel. Clarenceux deserves this.”

  Richardson recovered his wits. He bowed. “Indeed, my lady. I could not agree more. But if I may intrude upon your happiness for a moment, to remind you of the matter of the daughters of the deceased agents in London; we cannot keep them forever. Would you have me return them to their families? Jane Carr has a sister, she told me before she left, and Ann Thwaite a brother.”

  “Yes, yes. You are tiresome. Let them go. Let all of them go. I have no further need of them—not now we have Clarenceux’s wife and daughter.”

  Richardson hesitated. “All of them? Even those whose mothers are still alive?”

  “Why not?” said the old woman, sitting back in her seat by the fire and placing her sticks beside her. “It’s time someone else paid for their keep. It is not as if I was truly going to hang them—not unless their mothers were openly rebellious. I’m not a brutal woman. Pass me that wine, if you please.”

  Richardson picked up the wine flask. “What about Mary Vardine?”

  “Ah, her. No, she is a different case. Keep her.”

  62

  Tuesday, February 4

  Clarenceux was in his chamber getting ready to go to see Annie when the knock came. He did not hear it himself but he heard Thomas’s shout, “I will see to it, Mr. Clarenceux.” He descended the stairs, crossed the landing, and went through the hall—and was just about to go down the front stairs when he heard Thomas answered by a gentleman whom he should have expected.

  He looked out and saw Dethick mounted on a huge Neapolitan courser.

  Closing his eyes and cursing, he hurried down to the front door. “Sir Gilbert, I am truly—”

  “You gave me your word, Clarenceux, that you would set out today. Can I not trust you even to keep your own promises?”

  Sir Gilbert seemed to have dressed especially for this occasion. His silver-handled sword flashed in the morning light; his embroidered waistcoat was visible beneath the front of his doublet. He was wearing a wider ruff than usual, starched and pleated. His black breeches were of velvet and his hosen were sewn with patterns of gold leaves. His boots were black leather with a silver buckle.

  “Sometimes one’s promises are thwarted by events,” said Clarenceux. “In this case my daughter has been ill with a fever, and it only broke three days ago. I despaired of her life.”

  “I despair of you doing your duty,” replied Dethick. “I despair of the next time you tell me that you give me your word. If you have not set out by the end of the day, I will make this a case for the Earl Marshal to adjudicate. And that will not be to your benefit, I can assure you.”

  Dethick kicked his horse’s flank and the beast took off a little more sharply than its rider had anticipated. He rolled back in the saddle before he regained his balance.

  As Clarenceux watched him go, a woman suddenly ran out of the house opposite. Her long dark hair was hanging loose, and she had a troubled look about her. Her shoes were muddy and falling apart; she wore no jewelry, no ruff—nothing fancy at all. She looked as if she were in her early thirties. Her breasts swayed beneath her dress as she ran—straight toward Clarenceux.

  “I must have words with you, sir, it is important,” said Sarah Cowie. Her blue-gray eyes had the watery look of someone who has not slept for days.

  “And who might you be?” He glanced at the windows of the house opposite. Only one was open.

  “I must speak to you privily about your wife and daughter.”

  “Come in,” he said quickly, standing back to allow her access to his house. He looked up and down the street, to make sure she was not being followed.

  In the hall he shut both doors, so they were alone. “Be seated,” he said, gesturing to the bench by the table, feeling the heavy nervousness in his arms.

  “I prefer to stand,” she replied, her hands folding over each other repeatedly, like the headless bodies of two worms.

  “Well?”

  “I do not know how to say this, so I will just say it. Your wife is being treated poorly and I know where. If you will give me the document that Mr. Greystoke so badly wants, I will tell you where they are keeping your wife.”

  “Awdrey is being maltreated? In what way? Where is she? Is my daughter Mildred with her?”

  “They are together, in a darkened room, in a house outside London. That is all I can tell you—unless you give me that document.”

  Clarenceux could feel his pulse racing. “Do you know what document they seek? Do you know what it is?”

  “A marriage agreement,” replied Sarah, “between Lord Percy and the queen’s mother. I have heard Mr. Greystoke speak about it. And I can read, so do not try to pass off something else on me.”

  “You can read?” Clarenceux took in the disheveled look and unwashed smell. If this woman had had an education, she had fallen a long way. “How is my wife? Is she well?”

  The dark-haired woman looked at him strangely. “Her life is at stake, Mr. Clarenceux. Of course she is not well. She is being poorly treated all the time by John Greystoke.”

  “Poorly treated?”

  “He has taken his pleasure of her body at least twice, if not more times. She is spending all her days and nights in an unlit, unheated room, waiting for the next time he will demand that she—”

  “Stop it!” Clarenceux felt as if he had been hit. He reached for the table and sat down on the bench. His failure to protect Awdrey tore him apart and left him unable to think logically.

  “He has raped her?”

  “The first time, he forced himself on her. The second time, she did not put up a fight. The third time, she resisted. I don’t know what happened after that.”

  The volcano erupted. He got to his feet and advanced upon the woman. Grabbing her around the neck, he shouted, “Tell me where they are! Tell me where—tell me!”

  Sarah Cowie was terrified but did not struggle. “I cannot,” she choked as he loosened his grip enough for her to speak.

  “You mean you will not. When did you last see them?”

  “Yesterday.”

  He seized her shoulders and threw her against the wall. “Tell me where they are, or I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

  “You cannot make me regret that any more than I do already, sir. I ran away from the house to tell you. I do not want to think of what he is doing to her.”

  “You women—he has you all under his control, he can tell you when to appear and then he cuts your throats, as if he can command your lives. What hold does he have on you?”

  Cla
renceux let go of her and stepped away, covering his face with his hands. “Oh Christ! Oh God help us!” For a long while he stood, just praying. “Why do you and the other women all do so much for Greystoke? What hold does he have on you?”

  “Not him—Lady Percy. She has our daughters. And she will hang them in our places if we do not complete the task.”

  “In your places?”

  Sarah sat down on the bench. “All of us have been found guilty of some crime or other. Some of us made one mistake and were told we would pay for it with our lives. I only ever stole once in my life, it is true, I swear it; but that was enough. I was sentenced to hang.”

  “What did you steal?”

  “Five pewter plates, a salt cellar, and a candlestick.”

  Clarenceux got up and walked across the hall. Thomas was right: he could not risk bringing Annie home to this house. He looked at the portrait of Awdrey and closed his eyes. She was suffering. Through no fault of her own. Through no fault of his—except a willingness, long ago, to help an old friend.

  “Did you kill Rebecca Machyn?” he asked.

  “No, not me.”

  He looked at her. “Who then, if not you? Give me a name.”

  “Joan Hellier. She killed her.”

  “I presume she is another of Lady Percy’s women, with a daughter in jail?”

  “Yes. She is guarding your wife for Greystoke now, as we speak, with another woman called Helen Oudry. But Joan is of the real criminal community. Helen and I are not used to the life they lead.”

  “I do not care about the life you lead,” Clarenceux replied. “I do not care about anyone but my wife and my daughters and the safety of those in my household.” He paused, thinking. “How does Lady Percy tell you what to do?”

  “It is Father Buckman who tells us.”

  Clarenceux hit the table hard. “Greystoke betrayed Buckman to Walsingham: Sir William Cecil told me. If he is working with Buckman—it doesn’t make sense!”

  Sarah simply shrugged.

  He rested his forehead on the palm of his hand. “Let us imagine that I were to surrender the document,” he said carefully. “To whom should I give it? Would you take it to Lady Percy yourself?”

  She nodded. “I would not trust Greystoke with it. He is a deeply selfish man.”

  “It would be your death warrant. You would never get to Sheffield. If Greystoke didn’t cut your throat for it on the way, Walsingham would. He has men watching Sheffield Manor. This priest, Buckman—do you know how to find him?”

  She rose to her feet. “I will call for the document. You will give it to me. I will pass it on to Father Buckman—it is my risk after that.”

  Clarenceux looked up at her. “I am not giving the document to you or anyone else. As you know, it is not in this house. You said you can read—there can’t be many condemned women who can—which makes me fairly certain you were the one who went through the books and documents on my desk when you were staying in the garret two doors down the road.” He saw the startled look on her face. “Yes, I have been there. I have seen the marks on the walls by the window where you took signals from Greystoke.” He paused but she did not answer, remaining standing in front of him. “You might be able to tell me where my wife was yesterday—but is she still there today? You have nothing to offer me. And now I am not sure that Greystoke will treat you any better than he is treating my wife for betraying him.”

  Sarah walked to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Clarenceux asked.

  “Can you guarantee my safety?”

  “No. No more than I could that of my wife.”

  “I have just told you many things. Greystoke will kill me, as he did the others. I don’t want to die. I want to see my daughters, Catherine and Elizabeth.”

  Clarenceux noted the names: one Catholic, one Protestant. This woman was not part of a religious conspiracy of her own volition, that was clear.

  “Take me to Buckman,” he said.

  “I cannot. I haven’t been there, and he would—”

  “You ‘haven’t been there’? Then you know where ‘there’ is. Tell me.”

  She shook her head. “Not unless you give me the document.”

  “We will go to see him together.”

  Sarah opened the door and went down the stairs. Clarenceux got up from the bench and followed her, slowly. He watched as she wrestled with the handle to the front door and stepped down the stairs. “Tell me, where do I find him? If you have any sense of justice, or injustice, you should tell me.”

  “You cannot help me.”

  Clarenceux reached behind the cloak that was hanging on a peg at the foot of the stairs and took hold of the sword that was concealed there. He drew it from its scabbard. “The door is locked.” He tapped with the point of the sword on her shoulders, as if knighting her from behind, then rested the flat of the cold blade against her cheek. “I mean you no harm, but I have to know where she is. Or I have to know where to find Buckman. They will never find that document, not in a thousand years. If you want to see your daughters again, you have to do what I say.”

  Sarah stopped struggling with the door. She knocked the sword blade away and turned to face Clarenceux. “You will find Buckman at the Black Swan in St. Dionis Backchurch. You must ask for a tankard of a beer called Old Faithful. Give him the document and he will tell Greystoke to release Awdrey and the girl. Do it quickly—and bring this to an end, for all our sakes.”

  Clarenceux put the sword blade back against her neck. “And my wife?”

  “I am sorry about your wife.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I cannot tell you. If I do, you will not surrender the document to Father Buckman. It does not matter what happens to me now. Someone is going to kill me. Even if I flee, the constables will take me back and hang me. But if you see Buckman with that document, at least my Catherine and Elizabeth will have a better life.”

  Clarenceux withdrew the blade. “Tell me your name, and you can go.”

  She looked him in the eye. “Sarah Cowie.”

  “You are a strange mix of courage and fear, Sarah Cowie.”

  “We all are. Are you any different?”

  63

  Clarenceux did not speak to Fyndern. He did not even speak to Thomas. He did not even look at them. He withdrew into the darkness of himself, seeking the core of his despair.

  It was the realization of how he had let this happen to his wife, how naive he had been, that caused his double distress. He did not just weep for her; he cursed himself for not recognizing the danger Greystoke had posed. He was like the unseeing optimist, telling his wife to trust him when truly he did not know what lay in wait. But that was the character of John Greystoke: he was not just cruel, selfish, and calculating; he was deceptive too. The vipera that lies in wait, curled in the bosom of one’s own heart, getting closer and closer and eventually poisoning the soul from within.

  Four hours later, in the cold, early afternoon, with the briefest of explanations to Thomas as to where he was going, Clarenceux left the house. Walking swiftly, he passed along Shoe Lane, across Holborn Bridge, up to St. Giles in the Fields, and then down Drury Lane. There he stopped, looking across the gardens at the back of Cecil House. He breathed the air of the day, wishing that somehow his breathing would cease, extinguishing his problems as easily as a candle flame is extinguished when pinched.

  There was still one little ray of light left to him, however, and she was in the house that now lay before him. Behind those glass windows, beneath those stone carvings and pinnacles—despite all that carved pomp and elegance—there was a girl who now was the only other free member of his family. With quickening steps he hurried toward Cecil House.

  Annie was in the garden, surrounded by a small court of servants. Little Robert Cecil—a diminutive three years of age to her seven—was play
ing with a ball made of an inflated leather-covered bladder, throwing it to her or kicking it and letting it bounce. She was going after it, albeit slowly, and throwing it or kicking it back. One lady in a dark-red embroidered kirtle was anxiously following her with a small form for her to sit on, it being only three days since her fever had broken. But Annie did not want to sit and refused all suggestions, even when she fell over. Clarenceux recognized a familiar stubbornness. He also smiled to see that Annie was behaving very responsibly to the young boy, as if she were his older sister.

  Gradually all the ladies, gentlemen, ushers, and other servants recognized that Clarenceux had come to be alone with his daughter. They bowed to him and withdrew in ones and twos, taking young Robert with them and leaving Annie alone with her father.

  “Will you walk with me a little way, Annie?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  She took it. “Where are we going?”

  “A short walk. I think that you and I should talk a little.”

  They came to a seat in a small enclosed part of the garden; Clarenceux sat, listening to the birdsong. Annie nestled close.

  “I am going to have to go away soon,” he began. “There are men and women who have…well, they have hurt your mother and sister. It falls to me to right the wrongs they have done.”

  “What have they done to them?”

  “They have taken them away and locked them in a room.”

  Annie looked very solemn, at the ground. “Robert Cecil will be sent away to school when he is five. I am seven. Can I go to school?”

  Clarenceux put his arm around her. “Girls don’t go to school, Annie. Girls are taught to read by their parents. Or a tutor.”