Walsingham nodded. “When you were taken home, after your little interlude with Sergeant Crackenthorpe, your friend Machyn was found on your premises.”
“No. No!”
“Left knee.”
“No!” As he turned to look at the man with the iron bar, he lost his balance on his one good leg and fell. He hit the floor hard and found himself sobbing, terrified by the thought of his imminent torture and hanging. He felt sick. He tried to wipe the tears from his face. He backed into the table, attempting to shield himself from his attacker. But the man with the bar did not strike him.
Walsingham was leaving the room. There had been a knock on the door. He was talking to someone outside in a low voice.
Minutes passed. He remembered Machyn’s tears. That was only last night. After Machyn left my house, he must have hidden in the stable loft through the worst of the storm. Fool! Why did he not stay inside when I offered? Then I would not have left the house, never have been caught by Crackenthorpe…
A different thought suddenly occurred to him. How did Machyn know Crackenthorpe would kill him by the end of the day? How did he know that Crackenthorpe would find him there, in that stable loft? Was it just a guess? Or had he planned it? Was that last line in the chronicle written simply to stir me into action? Is this all an elaborate trap?
Walsingham walked back into the room.
“You will be put in the cellar overnight. Tomorrow you will be taken over to the Tower.” Walsingham lifted his cup to his lips. “No one outside those walls will hear you.”
Clarenceux was motionless, numb. “Am I to have no trial?”
Walsingham frowned. “Mr. Harley, do you still not see? This was your trial. It is over.”
21
Awdrey tucked the blankets around her daughter in her cot and, looking at her sleeping face, whispered a prayer. She set the candle on the floor and wiped her eyes. The handkerchief was already sodden. She put it down and looked around the room again, trying to take in what she had lost.
They had been ruthless. They had destroyed her clothes chest, smashed it to pieces with an ax. They had even ripped up the clothes. Here was a linen sleeve from a chemise; there a bodice from a favorite blue dress she had had for years. Why did they need to do that? Machyn’s book could not be hidden in the seams.
She picked up a linen shift. It had a huge tear across the breast. She wiped her eyes again. Lifting the candle, she could see that William’s chest had had one side smashed in and the top wrenched off. The candlestick in the recess above the bed was broken. The mattress and pillows had been slashed. Feathers lay all over the floor, shifting in the air of the room. Even the rocker under the child’s cot had been broken off. The front of the cupboard in the wall was nothing more than splintered wood. The brass basin she had proffered to William that morning lay upside down, dented by a boot.
William. What has happened to him?
She crossed herself, unsure whether to be angry at him for bringing this on them, or fearful lest he be injured or imprisoned.
William had said that he feared that Henry Machyn would be killed. But it had been Rebecca who had told her about the book. It had also been Rebecca who had taken it from the house in the minutes before Sergeant Crackenthorpe had returned. Why hadn’t William given it to her? Why had he not told her where it was? Now everything they owned was destroyed. They had even slashed open Annie’s mattress. She was sleeping on a makeshift mattress of blankets.
This is William’s fault. If they indict him, he will have brought that fate on himself. In a moment of madness. He should have known better: he is experienced enough. No doubt they have destroyed all the books in his study too.
She crossed herself again. She would go in the morning down to her sister’s house in Devon to get away from this horror, which she had once cherished as her home.
She looked at her sleeping daughter and made the sign of the cross over her. Then she left the room quietly.
Holding the candle, she went down the stairs. When she glanced in the parlor, the glow of the candle revealed broken wood and plaster across the floor just inside the door. She turned away. She would leave first thing in the morning. Take nothing with her to remind her of this. Just the children.
But where was everyone? Where was Thomas? Emily? Nurse Brown? The boys? She had been told to go upstairs and stay there with her daughters after they had ransacked and destroyed her bedchamber. She had not seen what had happened down here.
In the silence she looked around the hall. The elm table was almost the only thing that had not been broken. The silver candlesticks too were intact. She bent down and picked one up, setting it on the table. To her left, William’s prized round mirror was smashed, lying in pieces on the floor where a soldier had stamped on it. The carpet over the chest had had a knife driven through it.
As she moved along, bringing her small light to bear on each minute sadness, she felt that much more had been destroyed than her possessions. Her trust in the place had been destroyed too. Her husband’s protection had been found wanting. And more than that: she was walking in dead, empty space. There was no one, no sound from anywhere in the house.
Could they have arrested them all?
She walked, almost in a daze, down the dark back stairs. The lake of liquid across the floorboards in the corridor told her that they had broken the barrels. The buttery door was open; inside, the kegs were on their sides.
She carried her candle through to the kitchen. Apples and vegetables were everywhere, having been stamped underfoot and kicked together with corn strewn from the sacks that used to be propped against the wall. Joints of meat that had been hanging in the rafters had been cut down and thrown on the fire. The remains of several legs of salted pork sizzled quietly in the ash and embers. There too lay several blackened meat bones and a trivet, upturned. A skillet nearby had been thrown onto the fire so its handle had burned away.
She felt the tears welling up in her eyes again. There was nothing for her here now. She lifted the candle for a final look and turned to go. At that moment she realized that an old brown blanket had been hanging almost directly above her. It was suspended from one of the kitchen roof beams. It was odd, she thought, for them to throw a blanket up into the beams. She raised the candle and looked up. The blanket was damp at one corner, and a few spots of glistening water were dripping from the damp edge. But that damp edge enclosed a dirty foot. She looked higher into the shadows and saw the torn shirt with the blood on it and the jerkin covered in sawdust. Only then did she see the white face of Will Terry—and his lifeless eyes staring into the infinite void.
22
The door to the cellar slammed shut, and Clarenceux was left in darkness. He heard the bolts being fastened. All he had managed to see of his accommodation for this, the last night of his life, were the stone steps leading down into the blackness. It was damp and very cold. It stank of urine and decomposing excrement. It must be a large cellar, he thought, and the shutes of the privies on the floors above must empty into barrels stored down here.
He reached for the wall. The smell made him feel sick. He already felt queasy from his interrogation and now he felt worse. The pain in his right knee had slightly abated, and he could walk. But it was still difficult to put weight on it.
He took a step down in the darkness, keeping his hand on the wall. A small stone or piece of plaster dislodged, fell from the steps, and splashed into the water that covered the cellar floor.
Clarenceux stopped. At this time of year, in this temperature, everything would be damp. His own house had no cellars, but those of his neighbors were often flooded. His neighbors said the flooding was a benefit, for the urine that fell into the barrels rotted the wood so that the liquid seeped out and was dissolved in the water. But Clarenceux was sure the water did not go anywhere. It just sat there in winter: cold, stagnant, and stinking.
Still touching the cold wall, he carefully eased himself down onto the step. His knee ached terribly. He
heard shouts from upstairs and a few men walking about. Then nothing.
A rat scampered through the water in the darkness.
He ran a hand over the velvet of his doublet. By now they would have found the book. And they had Henry Machyn. They would torture Machyn until he confessed everything. And when he did so—whatever it was that he confessed—he, Clarenceux, would be deemed guilty of all the same offenses. He too would be tortured, and even though his confession would hardly tally with Machyn’s, they would both be condemned. His name was everywhere in the book. He was Machyn’s social superior, so Machyn would be considered just a foot soldier in whatever battle he was fighting. Clarenceux would be judged the leader.
He remembered Awdrey’s face and her golden hair as she had lain in bed the previous night. And Annie, in her bright-eyed innocence, sitting on his knee a few days ago and talking to him about things she had seen in the city.
What were they doing to his house? He hoped they would be restrained. And Awdrey—was she too in prison somewhere? How were they treating her? And what about Goodwife Machyn? If they had arrested her husband they were bound to want to question her too. He imagined her being arrested, those sad, brown eyes shocked and fearful. O God, he prayed, please do not let any harm befall either of them.
He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, feeling the anger rise. It was Machyn’s fault. That was the truth. What was it he had said about his recognizing a sentence from the book of Job? What could he remember of Job? Should a wise man speak vain knowledge, and fill his belly with the wind from the east? Should he reason with words of no value? Or make pointless speeches? You cast off fear and fail to pray before God, for you have confessed your sins with your own mouth, you choose the way of cunning. It is your own mouth that condemns you, and not mine. It is your own lips that testify against you.
Machyn was probably testifying at this moment. Are the consolations of the Lord small for you? Is there any secret in you?
Is there any secret? Clarenceux clenched his fist and pressed it against the stone wall. Machyn had overestimated him. The man had had too high a regard for his learning and his influence. And he himself should have known better. A lesser man had taken advantage of him, and he in his vanity had succumbed.
Walsingham had been right in one respect. He had been complacent. He had been naive. And now he was going to die.
“I AM INNOCENT!” he yelled, the sudden words like color across the darkness. “I AM AN INNOCENT MAN!”
What would it feel like, the rope around his neck? But no, he did not need to fear that. He was going to be tortured to death. Would he fear death if he felt only pain?
What would they use to bring it about? He shivered in the cold. He had heard about a contraption they used in France. They called it the rack. He had read about it in his copy of Sir John Fortescue’s De Laudibus Legum Angliae. Fortescue had been so horrified by the very idea of the rack that he had not described the instrument in his book. Instead he had described the anguish, worse than death, experienced by guiltless knights who were tortured until they confessed to treasons so they might be killed quickly rather than be subjected to further torment.
There was nothing he could do now but wait and pray.
Where was God in this? Could this, in any possible way, be His will? That a man should be tortured to death for a crime of which he was completely ignorant?
This cellar had been deserted by God. He was already entering the kingdom of the dead.
23
In the darkness of the stable, lying in the dung on the floor, Thomas managed to slip his right hand out of the rope knot. He had been struggling for hours to free himself. His shoulder ached; his skin was chafed and painful with the rope burns. Will had been just eleven years old. He had told them all he knew. And then they had killed him anyway.
He had died screaming for his mother.
The men had demanded to know where the book was, and no one could tell them anything. The other servant boy in Clarenceux’s household, John Wrightson, had shouted out, weeping, that it was no longer in the house, so they beat him, making him watch as they hanged Will. And despite Thomas’s shouts and pleadings, they had hoisted the boy higher and higher, as his legs kicked frantically and he tried to breathe.
He had died slowly. The moment he went limp, Thomas felt his heart break. Until that instant, he had not believed they would kill him. He thought about his nephew, Will’s father, and the day Thomas had proudly told him he had found his son a position in Clarenceux’s household. How happy they had been. They had gone to drink wine at a tavern.
Thomas gasped, tears rolling down his face as he released his left hand from the rope. Wherever my master is, if he still be alive, please let him return. And may he take revenge on these killers.
24
Sunday, December 12
Clarenceux was on his knees in the darkness, where he had been for hours, praying even after he had lost all feeling in his body.
Anxiety was simply a cloud he had flown through. A golden chariot, pulled by six white swans, was taking him up into a blue sky and showing him the world laid out beneath him. He could see the thousands of churches across Europe, all tiny, far below, as if he were an angel choosing which one he would visit. There were many more Catholic ones than Protestant, he realized. The sickness of faith lay here in England.
No, the woman who was holding the swans’ reins seemed to say, pointing to his own parish church, St. Bride’s, and all the people coming out of its doors. It is not a matter of which faith. All faith is righteous. It is unbelief that is the sin, warring against faith. This is the pattern of death: you will be lifted up into heaven; we will sing in the heavens. And those who choose not to be lifted—who choose to oppose God—will remain on earth, nothing but rotting food for worms.
They began to descend. Peering between the clouds he could see the River Thames, with its hundreds of boats moored on the sparkling water. The gatehouse on the bridge was opening for the day. The bells were ringing. And among the people leaving their houses early in the morning air was Goodwife Machyn, striding purposefully along the street to the market, which was just beginning to gather in Cheapside. Outside his own house a cart was passing. His family was all still indoors. They were happy there, even though they were without him. God’s blessing had come upon them all. They knew he had passed, or was passing, into heaven.
At that moment, as he turned to the beautiful driver of the swan chariot, he could not look at her. He did not dare. She was the Holy Ghost. She had been sent to guide him.
A shout somewhere in the house above jerked him out of his reverie. He felt the cold again and was in more pain than before.
Men were running upstairs. Perhaps it was the servants at daybreak? But if it was daybreak, then he had only a few hours to live. The creature inside him shriveled up, his fingers frozen, curled. He buried his face in his arms and placed one wrist across the other, making the sign of the cross with his arms.
Even though he could see nothing, he could feel the sign there, made with his own body. He raised his arms, keeping them hard against each other. This was the emblem of the faith. His faith. It was a dark sun that shone even in the deepest night.
The rebirth of the light. Despite his pain, he felt reborn. As sure as life was life itself, he knew that he, not Walsingham, was in the right. And nothing could ever make it any other way.
25
The sound of a bolt being shot broke the silence on this, the day of his execution.
“You. Harley,” the man called. He came down the steps and nudged him firmly with the side of his foot. “Get up,” he commanded. He pulled the collar of Clarenceux’s doublet, attempting to drag him to his feet.
Clarenceux forced his legs to straighten. He was still kneeling on the stone step, both legs numb.
“Get up, God damn you!”
The man was almost strangling him. Clarenceux reached out and gripped the man’s arm.
“Leave off me,” the str
anger commanded.
“Give me an arm, then, for pity’s sake,” croaked Clarenceux. His voice surprised him. Parched with lack of drink, sleep, and food, it sounded somehow different. Transformed. Capable of understanding power: absolute and immense power.
The guard said nothing but gave him his hand and helped him to his feet.
Clarenceux stumbled up the cellar stairs, staring into the light, placing one hand on each step. He could not help but stare: he simply felt drawn to the light, leaving the cellar, leaving the darkness of the cold night.
Suddenly he felt the pain of a fist against his jaw. The blow sent him sprawling down the passageway. He heard Crackenthorpe’s voice. “Mr. Walsingham is going to give you one chance to redeem yourself. If you fail, you will be put to death.”
Clarenceux’s head was swimming. He felt sick. He stayed where he was on the floor, with the dust on the floorboards before his eyes, his head pounding with pain. What chance is this? He heard footsteps elsewhere in the house—men running down stairs. Are they coming for me too? He could see the legs of just two men: Crackenthorpe and the man sent into the foul cellar to fetch him.
“The bells have just rung seven of the clock. You have until this evening, at eight of the clock, to produce Henry Machyn’s chronicle. If you do not, you know what will happen.”
Clarenceux lifted his head and stared at the uneven whitewash on the stone wall. So he was not going to be killed straight away…His mind moved slowly through the realization. They were letting him go home so he could fetch the book and give it to them. That meant they did not find it themselves.
The thought of what it might mean made Clarenceux’s head spin more, and he retched. He tasted bitter bile in his mouth. Crackenthorpe took a quick step and kicked him in the stomach.
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