He rose from where he was sitting and went to the window. “This is impossible,” he said, looking out. “We have all had our lives upturned. Your house has been ransacked. Mine has been rendered uninhabitable. Henry Machyn has gone missing, my servant has been murdered and I have killed a royal officer. We can hardly leave things as they are. What do we do now?”
“Mr. Clarenceux, you know as much as I do.”
“Tell me the date. Your Arthurian date.”
“Henry said not to reveal—”
“Goodman Heath, someone has got to find out what is going on here. We are not playing boyish games anymore. Our lives are at risk. We need to share what we know. The date he gave me was the twentieth of June 1557. It relates to a date in his chronicle, but the entry doesn’t make sense. Something about a sermon by the abbot of Westminster at St. Paul’s Cross.”
Lancelot still hesitated. He looked from Clarenceux to Rebecca.
“Mr. Clarenceux is right,” she said. “We need to work together. Our lives are already at risk—sharing this information will not help our enemies but it might help us.”
Lancelot stood up and went to the wall, thinking. “It’s the date I told you, the first entry in the book. June the thirteenth, 1550. There. Now what do we do?”
Clarenceux nodded. “Thank you.” He glanced at Rebecca, disappointed. “Had it been any other date, I would suggest that we go and look it up in the chronicle, but seeing that we already know what that entry says, it is hardly necessary. We have two dates and three or four names. And I am at a loss.”
Rebecca broke the silence. “Can we get some food here, Goodman Heath? And some hot water? Mr. Clarenceux has a nasty wound to his head that needs cleaning.”
“Of course. Gawain’s wife is in the next room. I will ask her.”
“We are going to need money too,” added Clarenceux. “Everything I had in my house has gone. I don’t know whether my wife took it or Sergeant Crackenthorpe’s men. But I have nothing. I don’t even have an eating knife.”
Lancelot paused at the door. “Money I can help you with. In fact, it’s your own money,” he said, looking at Rebecca. “Henry deposited a sum in gold—twenty pounds, I believe—with Iseult and her husband, John Crawley, in Mile End, to be collected at an unspecified time by King Clariance of Northumberland.” He went out of the room.
Rebecca lay back on the bed and yawned. “I could go to sleep here, it’s so quiet and warm.”
Clarenceux listened to the vague sounds from the tavern downstairs. The high notes of the fiddle came to him, and distant laughter. But even though it was not silent, she was right. It was quiet.
“Don’t,” he said.
“What are we going to do?”
Clarenceux felt his bruised knee and flexed it. “What do you think we should do?”
“We are not safe here. We would not be safe anywhere in the city. All I know is that I must do what I can to find Henry. And save ourselves. That is all we can do.”
Lancelot came back into the room carrying a knife, a pail of warm water, and a sponge. Clarenceux looked at the pail. “It was one of those that did the damage in the first place,” he muttered. Lancelot handed the knife to Clarenceux and placed the bucket beside the bench. Clarenceux sat down and Rebecca began washing his head around the wound.
“Some pottage, cheese, and bread will be coming up in a minute,” Lancelot said.
Clarenceux felt the warmth of the water, and its sting on his scalp. He felt Rebecca’s firm but careful touch. She had saved him by removing the chronicle—an act which, although it had had disastrous consequences, was well meant. She had led him to safety after the fight. And she needed him to help her find her husband. He could not abandon her and go down to Devon now—no more than she could abandon Henry.
“We will go to Mile End,” he said. “We will pick up the money left with your sister and take the ferry across to Greenwich. There, we can hire horses to take us to a place in Kent where I am known.”
“When you say ‘we,’ I take it that you do not mean all of us,” said Lancelot. “I intend to go my own way as soon as you have left this place. I will return to London when everything has settled down.”
Clarenceux looked at him warily, considering Heath’s position. After a long delay, he said, “I agree. The more of us there are, the more conspicuous we will be.”
“Why not let Goodwife Machyn come with me?”
Clarenceux felt the sponge pause on his scalp. He said nothing.
“I will go with Mr. Clarenceux. I need his help to find my husband.”
“In that case, may I make a suggestion?” Lancelot said. “Or, rather, two. First: when you travel, go on foot. At least in town. People always look to see who is riding; they assume that people on foot are of no consequence and ignore them. The second is that you travel as man and wife. People will be less suspicious of a woman traveling out of town with her husband than a woman in a man’s company.”
Clarenceux looked up at Rebecca. She caught his eye momentarily. “Gawain Heath thought we were man and wife when we arrived,” she said. “It makes sense.”
“What was your maiden name?” Clarenceux asked.
“Lowe.”
“We shall travel as Mr. and Mistress Lowe. After we have supped here, I will fetch the chronicle from where it is hidden—alone. Mistress Lowe, you will go to the sign of the Rising Sun in Mile End and wait there for me. I will join you as soon as I have recovered the chron—”
Suddenly there was a creak of the floorboards outside. All three stopped and looked at the door. There came one knock, then another, and a third.
Clarenceux felt himself tense, holding his breath as he waited.
Eventually the last knock came. Lancelot exhaled and went over to the door to unlock it. He took the bowl of pottage that Gawain had brought for them and the basket from under his arm. Clarenceux sniffed the air suspiciously but the pottage did not contain meat.
Rebecca noticed him inhaling but mistook his purpose. She squeezed out the sponge and dabbed once more at Clarenceux’s wound. “Smells good, doesn’t it?” she asked.
34
Cecil was sitting beside the fire when Walsingham arrived. He had just been handed a letter in code and was about to read it. He gestured to Walsingham to seat himself on the wide wooden seat on the other side of the fire.
Walsingham was impatient. He was annoyed at finding Cecil more intent on reading a letter than listening to him; he wanted to tell him the news. He suspected that Cecil was trying to annoy him but did not rise to the bait. Instead he raised his eyes to the ceiling to look at the newly completed plasterwork and the frieze. The paneling was fine too—he approved of the red and gold highlights on the edges of the panels.
Then his impatience got the better of him.
“Sir William, I have news that I think you should hear sooner rather than later.”
Cecil set down the letter. “Come then, Francis, tell me. What is it?”
“Several things. The first is that Clarenceux has confessed to having seen Machyn’s chronicle. I did arrest him and was interrogating him while his house was searched. However, in an unguarded moment when the house was left unwatched, Machyn’s widow took the book away. She has not yet been found—”
“Machyn’s widow?”
Walsingham shifted uneasily on the seat. “Under interrogation—”
“He was in his sixties.”
“He confessed to entering and leaving the city by way of a blacksmith’s house—a man by the name of Mason, he said. I have not yet identified the exact house. However, a search of Machyn’s premises did reveal his will. In addition to William Draper, it names Lancelot Heath—the man about whom Draper spoke. It was also witnessed by two men by the name of Hill and one Daniel Gyttens—men whom Draper failed to mention in his confession. We are searching for them now.”
Cecil pondered. “This news is hardly earth-shatteringly important, Francis. In fact, I would go back to reading my l
etter but for the fact that you said you had interrogated Clarenceux. What did he tell you?”
“He said nothing about the plot except that Machyn was a friend of his and he had seen the chronicle. He pretended not to know that Machyn was in his stable. He was lying, of course. He said nothing about William Draper or Heath.”
“What did he say about me?”
“Only that he believed you would protect him.”
“And did you say that you were working for me?”
“No.” Walsingham hesitated slightly. “Of course not.”
“Is he still in custody?”
“No. I released him in the hope that he would lead me to the chronicle.”
“And did he?”
Walsingham realized he had walked straight into one of Cecil’s traps. How had it happened? Talking to Cecil was like rowing along a mountain river: suddenly you realized you were in white water, struggling to stay afloat as you were swept along between the rocks of his knowledge, until you were becalmed in a pool, having inadvertently said something that was both secret and true.
“There are other factors, Sir William. In the course of searching Clarenceux’s house, Sergeant Crackenthorpe unfortunately killed one of the servants. It seems that in revenge, Clarenceux sought out Crackenthorpe’s own brother and killed him, blinding another of Crackenthorpe’s men in one eye at the same time.”
Cecil’s voice betrayed his surprise. “Quite the soldier, our herald.” Especially considering the man has not been under arms for nearly twenty years. Lord Paget did tell me once that Clarenceux was the best herald because he was the only one who understood how soldiers think, having been one himself. “Where is he now?”
“That I do not know, Sir William.”
Cecil stood up. “That is the real news, isn’t it, Francis? You have allowed the man whom you suspect to be the chief architect of this plot to go free, having failed to secure the chronicle. And you have seen to it that he has put himself outside the law. He is hardly likely to come to me for help now. We have lost him.”
“But we have the names in Machyn’s will…”
“And so does he, if he is the protagonist you think he is. He has all he needs. He can go into the north and proclaim a rising in the name of Mary of Scotland, and he has whatever secret this damned chronicle holds as well.”
“He is under instructions to deliver the chronicle to me by curfew.”
“He will not. Killing Crackenthorpe’s brother puts the matter beyond doubt. I’d be scared to show my face at your house if I’d killed Crackenthorpe’s brother. What about Machyn’s body?”
“I’ve told the jailers to bury him in a plague pit, befitting his state as the late owner of a plague-infested house.”
“Foolish. Give him the dignity he deserves. He was an old man, and he buried many members of the gentry and aristocracy with lavish and kindly displays. He deserves better than a plague pit. And Clarenceux?”
“What about him?”
“No. What are you going to do about him?”
“I am going to continue looking for him. Crackenthorpe has posted guards on every street corner in Queenhithe ward. He is desperate for revenge.”
“If he finds Clarenceux first, you’ll be interrogating a corpse.” Cecil paused. “What time did you release him?”
“About seven of the clock. Why?”
“I want to know. Is there anything else you need to report?”
“No, Sir William.”
“Not even where Lancelot Heath might be?”
“I regret to say I have no information on that matter, Sir William.”
“I regret it too. I expect you to do all you can. And more. He may be as important as Clarenceux. Together they may be more important to this plot than the chronicle itself. Go now, and good luck.”
Cecil watched Walsingham leave the chamber. He turned and looked into the fire.
Francis released Clarenceux eight hours ago. If he had interrogated him the previous evening and said nothing about me, why did Clarenceux not come to me as soon as he was released?
He stood up and walked the length of the chamber. He tapped his fingers on the panel at the far end, then turned and walked back to his table.
There are two possible reasons. One is that he now knows Walsingham has my protection and is working under my direction. The other is that he really is guilty.
Cecil stopped walking.
Perhaps both are true.
35
In his velvet cap and old robe, Clarenceux left the tavern to return to the warehouse. He looked up at the old church of St. Swithin’s on the other side of the road and glanced both ways along Candlewick Street. No one seemed to be looking for him. He decided to walk toward Dowgate, where Skinners’ Hall was situated, and then along past the church of St. Thomas the Apostle. He pulled his robe tight, wishing the cold was not so extreme.
The thought occurred to him that, as a warden of the company, he was well known by those coming and going from Skinners’ Hall. Walsingham might have bribed his fellow liverymen to watch out for him. But the fact that he had to get to Queenhithe forced him in that direction. Caution was necessary; fear, a mere hindrance.
He looked into the faces of those he passed, quickly shifting his gaze if they made eye contact. He glanced ahead and saw a man loitering by St. John’s Church, rubbing his hands against the cold. He was not tall but small-framed, ill-at-ease, and wearing a side-sword. Was he one of Crackenthorpe’s men? And the armed man on the other side of the street—was he?
Clarenceux turned and walked swiftly into Dowgate, as if going to the hall. He could turn off right and head along the back street past St. Michael’s Church, then cut through to Little Trinity by the alleys in Garlickhithe. He felt his breathing becoming faster. Turning into the lane, he saw another two men on the corner of the road opposite the church. They are guarding the boundaries of the ward.
He stopped. Instantly, he realized that he might alert them by the very act of stopping. He hurriedly bent down as if to refasten the buckle on his shoe and looked back to the Skinners’ Hall. The sweat on his brow chilled his face. If he went on, he would have to walk past the waiting men. He could not do that: they were looking for him, and the risk of being caught was too great. But if he went back, how was he going to get to Queenhithe?
He retraced his steps, breathing hurriedly, expecting the men at St. Michael’s to come after him at any moment. There were more people in the street and a couple of carts too. But the men guarding the ward would not care who saw them make an arrest; no one would intervene. He felt the pain in his knee and wondered if he could run. Not fast enough. Back in Dowgate he turned for the safety of the hall, walking as fast as his stiffness would allow. He turned in through the entrance alleyway.
“Good day, Mr. Clarenceux,” said one of the porters, stationed in one of the chambers beside the entrance.
“Hoskins, my good man,” said Clarenceux, relieved to see a friendly face.
“Watch out, Mr. Clarenceux. Behind you.” Hoskins put out an arm to guard Clarenceux from a cart entering the alley.
Clarenceux drew in close to the door to the porter’s chamber and watched the cart trundle past. The rider was wearing a huge rainproof cape and hat; on the cart behind him were several barrels of wine. Clarenceux noted that the man’s face could not be seen. Perhaps I could change clothes and positions with him? But that in itself is bound to arouse suspicion—what if he should betray…
And then he hit upon a far simpler plan.
“Hoskins, do you know anyone with a boat who would be prepared to take me a short distance along the river, from Dowgate to Queenhithe, and then on to the Isle of Dogs?”
“Why, Mr. Clarenceux, I might well. It depends when you want to go. My cousin is a bargemaster, but he is at Southwark this afternoon.”
“No, Hoskins, I need to go now. This very moment.”
“Then what about young John Gotobed, the court clerk’s nephew? He was here just th
is morning and will be returning shortly with a consignment of paint. Shall I tell him when he appears?”
“Hoskins, I would be very grateful. Tell him he may find me in the wardens’ chamber.”
36
It was almost dark by the time Clarenceux arrived at Mile End. He entered the inn and found the hall lit by a fire and many candles, and thronged with men and women, children and dogs. At one table a family party was eating together; at another, three merchant travelers in fine doublets and stylish flounced hose were discussing their journey. At one end of a long table some farmers were drinking; next to them a bailiff and a letter-carrier were playing cards. Two traveling musicians were occupying the same table, laughing as they fended off the calls of a group of young men and their wives to play some music so they might dance. Standing around the hall were the tradesmen of the area—a blacksmith and his wife, a surgeon, a brewer, a butcher, and clerks who kept accounts for their masters or for the church.
Clarenceux, holding the chronicle under his robe, pushed through the people standing in the center of the large room. He was looking for the tell-tale leather apron of the landlord. It was not to be seen, but a weary-looking woman in a faded red gown, laced bodice, and apron did catch his eye as she carried a large flagon to the long table.
“I’m looking for Mistress Lowe,” he said to her over the noise of the crowd, adding the explanatory “my wife,” embarrassed at the necessary lie.
The woman shouted her reply as she poured ale from the leather flagon into a wooden cup and pocketed a silver penny in return. “Good day to you, Mr. Lowe. I had to move three men from that room, seeing as a married couple would be paying for the bed, so ’tis good you’ve arrived.”
She beckoned Clarenceux away from the hall through to the screens passage at the far end and out into the courtyard. The cold air and near-darkness was a shock after the warmth and light of the hall. The woman carried no candle. Clarenceux followed her as she started to climb the outside staircase to the gallery, where she opened the second of three doors. He saw the light of a single flame within, a lamp fixed to the wall.
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