Nervous, he looked back up the street. He could not see any sign of anyone watching him. He turned around, about to cross to the neighbor on the other side of Machyn’s house—a taller, more handsome building with a carved cherub’s head on its corner post. But at that moment, he heard the click of a key turning in the lock in the door.
A soldier stepped out from Machyn’s house: very tall—taller even than Clarenceux—with lank brown hair and slow, heavy-lidded eyes. Clarenceux recognized him as one of the men who had come with Crackenthorpe to arrest him the previous evening.
Clarenceux froze, aware that he was unarmed and in a weakened state. The soldier was surprised to see a tall man, whose face he could not immediately place, standing right in front of him, staring at him strangely. A moment later, he remembered both the face and the previous night and recalled what had happened to the boy in the kitchen.
Clarenceux threw himself forward, reaching for the man’s side-sword. The soldier instinctively put his hand down to protect it but Clarenceux was half a second faster. As he drew the blade, he sliced through two of the soldier’s clutching fingers. The soldier twisted and yelled in pain and rage, then turned and swung his arm at Clarenceux. He missed and lunged, trying to grab Clarenceux’s throat. Clarenceux stumbled backward, looking for space to wield the sword, but the man was already on top of him. He heard a woman’s scream and the sound of running feet, and then he was suddenly falling backward, the soldier tumbling with him. Only the instinct not to land flat on his back made him turn as he came down, forcing himself away from the soldier by pushing at him with the sword, trying to twist in the air and thrusting the sharp blade through the soft flesh of the man’s groin and against the bone.
Clarenceux hit the ground hard with his shoulder. The pain in his knee, which was jolted by the fall, made him grit his teeth. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a second man—the man who must have tripped him—swinging an iron-rimmed wooden pail. Clarenceux lifted himself, trying to regain his feet. The man swung the pail with force and connected with the side of his head. The blow made Clarenceux cry out, laying him back on the ground. The man swung the bucket again and brought it down toward his head, but Clarenceux saw it coming and rolled sideways. He looked upward as the man threw the pail hard toward him. Instinctively, he raised an arm to break the force of the throw and the bucket hit his elbow, jarring the bone. He tried to get to his feet, feeling the pain in his knee, but before he could rise, the man drew a long dagger and lunged forward, the point toward his throat. It was all Clarenceux could do to throw himself out of the way, guarding against the thrust with the sword in his own hand. The man immediately turned and came after him again, jabbing forward at Clarenceux’s face as he scrambled about in the mud of the street, trying to use his left leg to force himself to his feet. Clarenceux crawled backward, using both hands behind him to move, unable to wield the sword. Again the man jabbed the dagger toward him. Clarenceux kicked out with his left leg. As he did so, he felt a doorstep with his elbow and used it to lift himself into a crouching position while he brought his sword forward. Two, three thrusts he parried, and then he finally was back up on his feet.
The man delayed, hesitant at losing the advantage. Clarenceux watched him, his back against the wall, waiting for him to strike. His assailant would come at him with a sudden movement; he could anticipate that. He remembered a lesson he had learned on his sole military campaign, at the siege of Boulogne. You can tell more about a man from a minute in a fight than from a year in conversation. He knew he was not as good a fighter as this man. He had been lucky to wound his first opponent as they fell. He was unpracticed.
Suddenly there was an almighty scream from the soldier away to his left. A moment ago, the man had been lying in the mud, rolling around, clutching his guts, and cursing in pain. There were about a dozen people in the street, huddled on the far side, but they were only watching; no one was helping the wounded man. Now, however, he was on his feet and shouting, bloody, stumbling toward Clarenceux. Clarenceux waited, then darted a glance to him, knowing that the knife fighter would choose that instant to lunge again.
When the blow came, Clarenceux was already moving. He slashed back with the sword as he shifted his body to his left. The blade sliced the knife fighter straight across the middle of his face as Clarenceux threw his weight behind his shoulder and hit the advancing soldier in his bloody belly. He paid no attention to the scream of the knife fighter; he did not even hear him. All he heard was his own panic as he drove the sword home under the wounded soldier’s ribs as he fell with him, twisting the blade, ripping it out, frantic. He fell on top of the dying man, then pushed the palm of his left hand into his face, lifted the sword, and stabbed him again through the chest. Only after he had plunged the blade into the man for a third time did he turn to look for the knife fighter. He was already twenty yards up the street and stumbling blindly, his bloody face in his hands.
Clarenceux stared at the blood on his own hands. He saw the glistening blood soaking the soldier’s tunic and spreading in the mud. The stab wound in the man’s groin revealed the glistening intestine.
Clarenceux felt sick. He tried to get to his feet but could not. The world was closing in on him, his head pounding with the pain of the blow from the bucket, his body aching. Suddenly the nausea rose within him and, unable to stop himself, he vomited beside the corpse, letting himself fall into the mud, beyond prayer, hearing his own panting, tasting bitter bile, and staring at the gray skies.
It started to rain. For a few seconds he lay still, feeling the cold droplets fall onto his face.
“My mistress bids me tell you come quickly if you want to live.”
Clarenceux looked up and saw the sharp features of a boy about twelve years old.
“For all our sakes, Mr. Clarenceux, please get up. Come quickly!”
Clarenceux was suddenly alert. He got to his knees, cursed the pain, then pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. The people in the street were watching him. They had seen him attack the tall soldier for no apparent reason. He had committed a hanging crime in front of all these witnesses—a whole jury’s worth.
The rain started to come down harder.
“Please, Mr. Clarenceux!” He looked in the direction the boy was urging him to go. There was a door open on the other side of the street.
He took a look at the dead man and removed the sword from his chest. He threw it down beside the body, feeling disgusted, a stranger to himself. I should say a prayer for his soul. But I do not even know his name. He crossed himself, said “Rest in peace, amen,” and turned to follow the boy.
Only when he had gone did the witnesses send for the constable, as the raindrops continued to fall on the bloodied corpse of John Crackenthorpe, Richard Crackenthorpe’s brother.
***
Clarenceux followed the boy into the house and along a passage that led to a walled yard at the rear. Here was a small gate opening into the courtyard of the adjacent house, and that in turn led to the yard of the neighboring property. None of the gates was locked; the boy knew exactly where he was going and how to open each one.
Clarenceux followed in the rain. In the fourth and last yard was a ladder, propped against a wall. The boy climbed up it without hesitating and waited. Clarenceux went up step by step and balanced precariously on the top of the wall as the boy pulled the ladder up, then let it down on the other side and scurried to the ground. Clarenceux descended more slowly.
He stepped off the ladder and looked up. He was facing the elaborately carved rear wooden jetties of a handsome town house. Many glazed windows let in light to the rooms on the upper floors. Large lead cisterns around the cobbled courtyard caught the rainwater running off the roof of the main house and its wing. To one side were a stable and a gate leading through to the street. To the rear, beyond the curtilage wall, was a large, old building that Clarenceux recognized as Painter-Stainers’ Hall.
Goodwife Machyn approached from the back door of the house,
her fear and resolve both showing in her face. She had white linen towels on one arm. Clarenceux wanted to embrace her, to feel her warmth, but he knew he could not touch her. He could not touch anyone. It was not just the blood; it was the uncleanness. He had killed a man—it was not right that he share in any human warmth.
He realized he was trembling. I need to make a confession.
“Put this around your head.” Rebecca reached up and wrapped a linen towel around him. “Hold it in place. There.”
“I am in grave trouble, Goodwife Machyn,” he said as he followed her indoors.
“I know. I watched from a window. Is that man dead?”
“I believe so.”
“Let us not talk here. Let us get away as quickly as possible.” She led him into the house. They walked down a dark corridor.
“Where’s the chronicle?”
“Hidden.” She turned and silently pointed up in the dimness. She put a finger on her lips.
“I need to see it,” he whispered. “As soon as possible.”
They entered a high stone-walled room with enormous fireplaces on either side. Steam curled in the light of the windows high above them. The late morning dinner was being cooked: pike for the lady of the house and her companions, pottage for the servants. Clarenceux could smell fried onions and garlic. Two kitchen boys attended to the fires, the spit, and the cauldrons while the cook recorded what had been spent in an account book. He glanced first at Rebecca and then at Clarenceux, who was still holding the linen towel to his head.
Rebecca led Clarenceux down a flight of steps into a cold room full of large barrels on their sides. The pungent smell of old ale was heavy in the air. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she spoke with her mouth close to his ear, quietly. “Mistress Barker’s servants take in deliveries here; outside is an alleyway that leads to Huggin Lane. That door at the far end of the room is locked, but I will get a key. At the other end of Huggin Lane, beyond Thames Street, is a warehouse. It used to belong to Henry’s brother, Christopher, and now is owned by his daughter, but she doesn’t use it; Mistress Barker does. We will be as safe there as anywhere. You must wait here while I go and fetch the chronicle and the keys.”
Clarenceux watched her leave the buttery, then took the linen from his head. It was heavily stained. In this dim light the blood looked black against the white linen. He was shaking. He was very cold. He had killed a man and a part of himself too. The soft part, the innocence—that was what had died. He remembered his rage on seeing Will’s body; he remembered saying to Thomas that he no longer wanted to be innocent. That wish to take arms and seek revenge still gripped him. But how little he had known about loss of innocence. It was not like being a soldier, when he had killed men at someone else’s order.
His shivering grew worse. The bitter taste of vomit in his mouth, the smell of the ale, the pain in his head. He felt with his hand and looked at his fingers; they were dark with blood. He held the cloth to his head again and wondered whether he would have been in such a frenzy to kill that soldier if he had not been hit on the head.
Yes. The decision had already been made. I made it when I put my hand on Will’s cold forehead.
Noises came from the kitchen, pots being banged together. Was that a warning? He felt nervous, on edge, as if any moment Sergeant Crackenthorpe might appear. He wondered whether he had actually blinded the second assailant. Undoubtedly the man would return to Crackenthorpe and tell him what had happened. And Crackenthorpe would not risk coming with just a few men to arrest him a second time. He would bring a whole army.
He heard footsteps and looked up to see Rebecca. She was wearing a long mulberry traveling cape and a felt hat decorated with an ostrich feather. Under one arm she had the chronicle; over the other she was carrying an old brown robe that had once been of fine quality, with fur trimmings and long sleeves and a wide black velvet cap.
She held the robe out to him. “You will need this.”
Clarenceux wiped his head once more and put the linen cloth on an upended barrel. He took the robe and put it on. It smelled musty and vaguely perfumed but it was warm. It would also conceal the blood.
Rebecca put down the chronicle and hat on the barrel and came close to look at his head. She touched with her fingers and saw the dark, fresh blood. She picked up the linen cloth, ripped off a portion, folded it, and placed it over the wound.
“It is only a short distance but we cannot risk you being seen,” she said, passing him the velvet cap. He put it on. “Good,” she added, looking at him. She handed him the chronicle.
“You take it,” he said. “They will be after me for murder. If they see me you can still get away.”
“No. Women with books attract attention—it means we can read. Besides, you are the only one who can make sense of it.”
With that, Rebecca went to the far side of the cellar and inserted the key in the lock. Clarenceux followed with the book under his arm, watching her from behind. In the shadows he saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath and then turned the key. She opened the door and stepped out.
It was still raining. She looked down the alley and beckoned Clarenceux out, locking the door behind him. Then she started walking fast. He followed her, struggling to keep up, watching the heels of her shoes splash in the mud and puddles as she turned into Huggin Lane.
“Goodwife Machyn, slow down a little,” he gasped.
She turned to look at him but immediately saw his gaze shift to the end of the street. A watchman of the city was riding fast, straight toward them.
“Walk on,” said Clarenceux suddenly. “Here, take my arm. Keep walking,” he urged. He made himself look away from the rider and gathered himself for the shout and the attack. Was he prepared for another fight? No. But he would fight anyway.
I no longer want to be innocent.
The rider was almost upon them and not slowing down. Clarenceux expected to hear the command for them to halt. He tensed his body, held Rebecca’s arm close, and whispered a prayer under his breath.
The rider galloped past. Clarenceux glanced back and saw the man turn the corner of the lane behind them.
“Did you recognize him?” Rebecca asked.
“No, and thankfully he did not recognize us. But I would lay a bet that he was acting on Crackenthorpe’s orders.”
They continued down to Thames Street. Clarenceux followed Rebecca as she walked quickly across and went around the back of the row of facing buildings. Here the wide prospect of the Thames and the masts of the ships on the quay came into sight, as well as dozens of porters, laborers, and mariners, together with a few clerks, merchants, and customs officials. Rebecca turned her back on the crowd and opened a gate between two tenements; a small quiet yard lay beyond. She walked to the door on the opposite side, produced a key from her dress, and opened it. Clarenceux followed, feeling the solidity of the oak door, thinking of refuge.
Inside the warehouse was a wide space, the nearer part open to the roof beams. Chinks of light came through in two or three places, where tiles were missing; water dripped here and there into puddles on the ground. The further half was divided into three floors—two open-sided platforms with a pulley along one side. Stacked on the windowless ground floor were sawn planks of Scandinavian pine and large oak tuns. Above, arranged in rows, there were huge sacks of the sort that traders used for transporting wool fells.
A ladder led to the first-floor platform. Rebecca went straight up and Clarenceux followed, looking around. On this side the roof had not been allowed to decay. A pair of rough doors opened out above the wharf on the far side. Although they were closed, daylight crept in around the edges, allowing a little light into the warehouse.
He sank down on the bare floorboards between two large woolsacks, resting his back on one. He was glad of the robe. He took off the velvet cap and looked at the blood-stained linen cloth. He touched his wound; the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
“I don’t know where that second man
came from. If there had been only one, I would not have needed to kill him. But two…”
“He was walking in front of you. I saw him from the window. I had been waiting all day for you to come. I knew where you were going; he did too.”
He watched her taking off the traveling cape. She held up the hat, showing him the bedraggled ostrich feather. She smiled briefly, then pulled the feather off and threw it to one side.
“Goodwife Machyn, I have something to tell you. Something serious. Your husband was arrested by Sergeant Crackenthorpe the night before last. He was hiding in my stable loft—he must have gone there after he saw me. Walsingham told me so himself.”
“Where did you see Walsingham?”
“At a house near the Tower.”
“And he let you go?”
“Only because his agents did not find the chronicle. Crackenthorpe returned to search my house. He would have found the book if you hadn’t taken it. They were thorough—they destroyed everything.”
“I am sorry. Are your wife and daughters…holding up?”
Clarenceux looked into her eyes. “Awdrey has gone down to Devon with my daughters. The house is uninhabitable.” He straightened his right leg slowly and reached for the chronicle.
“There is something you are not telling me.”
He hesitated. There were several things he was not telling her. He was not telling her that there was no hope for her husband. He was not telling her how glad he was to see her and how much she touched him with her presence. He was not telling her about Will.
“What made you attack the guard at my house?” she asked. “You are not a violent man by nature. At least I have not detected that in you before now.”
“You remember the boy—the one who told you the chronicle was hidden in the barrel?”
“Of course.”
“They hanged him. In front of the others, including Thomas, who was his great-uncle.”
Sacred Treason Page 13